


SOS i need to get out of this fanfiction

by ImpulseFunWritinAnon



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, My Immortal
Genre: Author Is Omniscient, Beta Wanted, Character Study, Crack, Crack Relationships, Crack Treated Seriously, Crack and Angst, Did I yet mention how cracky this is?, Everyone's Going A Bit Mad, F/M, My First Work in This Fandom, Not Epilogue Compliant, POV First Person, Parody, Some OOC, Swearing, Why Did I Write This?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-13
Updated: 2021-01-27
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:27:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 21,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25875088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImpulseFunWritinAnon/pseuds/ImpulseFunWritinAnon
Summary: HELP! im stuck in this story with some mad tart who goes by enoby? ebony and i cant get out, somebody send help please NO ron i need to use the computer first, you dont even know how to use it! oh my god how do you turn off voice to text HERMIONE TELL RON TO STOP TRYING TO GET HIS HANDS ON THE KIYEGKAWJvgdhejbhmedehheegwiemruwpijrAKA: The crossover nobody asked for. [Now looking for a beta!]
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Ebony Dark'ness Dementia Raven Way
Kudos: 2





	1. The Vampire Tart - Ebony Enoby Ebory Enony Ebondy Evony Ibony Enobby  Egogy Eboby Enopby Dark'ness Dementia  TaEbory Tata Tara Raven Way

Some unspecified time—or dimension; some bizarre pocket in time and space, and mind you, this stupefied me to no end, so just, y'know, go along with it, those who are reading this—in the land of 1998, a girl about my age dressed in crappy, monochromatic clothes (I know! I hope I haven't lost you yet—I promise this is relevant) arrived at Hogwarts. Draco Malfoy is dating her, and on that note, I never thought he'd have it in him: to be so full of self-hatred that the tosser would rather go out with her than jump off the Astronomy Tower. But then again, had he done that, those two times I saved his arse (not counting, I dunno, that one time I resurrected like that Jesus bloke to save everyone?) would have been for nothing, wouldn't it? Fucking idiot wanker.

Anyway.

When we met, the purple-haired girl in the most appalling miniskirt I've ever had the displeasure to lay my eyes on came up to me in the Great Hall and started nattering away about bands that I have never heard of (and I thought The Weird Sisters were the weirdest!)—I could swear she drooled and cried blood at random intervals (as to why, who can say, because I'd rather be shot in the head than try to make sense of her fannish rambling). I cringed internally and wanted to self-combust on the spot (I knew I should have taken some pointers from those ancient witches who enjoyed being set on fire repeatedly! Staying awake for History of Magic would have paid off in regards to the art of self-immolation), but tried for polite nodding and general hope-I-don't-cock-it-all-up sort of tact.

She spoke of 'preps', girls she didn't like, people she didn't like—all sorts of people she didn't like. It was truly painful. To put the bloody icing on the fucking cake, the tart is absolutely convinced that she is a vampire! As if I (and the rest of the not-new-to-magic people at school) do not already know what they act and look like—add yet another benefit to staying at that awkward Christmas Party last year (God, was that worth inviting Luna over!).

To her credit, Ebony—so I heard Malfoy say her name is and I must say, her voice was almost as grating as Dolores Umbridge's if memory serves me right at a spry, not-in-the-slightest-off-kilter-after-escaping-certain-death 18 years old (my life turned out about alright, but I don't think I can tolerate any more of this lunacy: first Voldemort, and now _her_ )— _roared_ at me her insistence of loving the taste of human blood after I came up with a string of flat-out lies (one, to my surprise, involuntarily! I kind of wanted to toss myself to the giant squid out on the lake; a little strangling can't hurt) for my amusement, although based on the hairs standing at the back of my neck at that point in time, somebody who should have been dead was feeling the opposite; Severus I-died-and-rose-again-for-the-purpose-of-this-silly-plot Snape probably thought I was provoking the nutter to new heights and therefore disapproved of my own attempts at having a bit of fun in this strange world that we have found ourselves in—and I made myself loud and clear in my head for him to read it (yes, you git, bloody mind-read it, as much as the words frustrate you!): _"For god's sake, Snape, lighten up already, you're bloody alive! Please let me have my fun—I think I deserve this, don't you think? And, you know what? So do you."_ (With the gift of hindsight, this probably wasn't a very thoughtful thing to say.)

It was the only fun—and fight—left in me when I was thrown unceremoniously into unknown territory; some mocking pocket dimension that made me wish for death by fiery, carefree self-destruction as soon as I darted my way in a panic to the Gryffindor Common Room and looked into that unhelpful mirror. I remember losing myself, stuck in a cloud of uneasiness, carelessness, recklessness and god knows what other feelings as I shoved through the crowd of students in the Great Hall, Colin Creevey at my heel, chasing me with that stupid camera and babbling something about being sorry and at the same time pleading for me to stay still so he can take photos of my new look soon after the 'vampire' left with Draco, who—I cannot help but mention—looked positively miserable and I never wanted to burst out into a riot so badly in my life (if memory serves, I believe the last time I made a fool of myself was after Luna declared to everybody the dangers of the Rotfang Conspiracy as Snape was held in a choke-hold by my walrus-like Potions professor, Horace Slughorn. Yeah—that was _almost_ a good night).

I wish for too much.

As I blankly looked into that mirror, I finally recognised my situation for what it really was.

I was—am—in a really, _really_ bad fanfiction.

 _Where's my Invisibility Cloak when I need it most?_ Memories of avoiding giggling groups of desperate girls through the use of Dad's Map circled in my head— _hasn't even been a full year of peace and quiet!_ —and I couldn't help the slight shiver of discomfort crawling down my spine.

_She is one of . . . those. Now I'll have to do it all over again._

_Just as well,_ I shrugged at the mirror in silent resignation, wiping away the excess black eyeliner from my face with the back of my hand, blinking away tears from the irritation of my corneas as I accidentally rubbed some of it into my eyes. _At least it's not queer-bait erotica,_ I sighed as I turned on the sink, palming up some cold water to douse on my face to get rid of the remainder of the sickening amount of make-up. I glanced up at the mirror, who had the nerve to remark as I felt—saw—my eyes flash with anger and squinted, scowling at it, noticing the worst spectrum of coal-colored mess currently marring my pale-ish skin and _oh my fuck, I am paler than before? And the scar, where'd it go, and_ — _god_ — _are—_

_Are those my bloody eyes?_

_THAT BITCH!_

"You still look awful, dear," the annoying mirror intoned casually, reprimanding me for something I did not willingly do. "What were you thinking, doing THAT to your rat's nest that you call hair? I think I prefer the way you had it before. Do go on— Oh, and you have a black smudge at the left—no, _your_ left—corner of your lips, dear. Must be that terrible lipstick."

Making an exasperated face and flinging my hands upward as I groaned in frustration at the uncalled-for criticism— _I mean, bloody hell, I never had THAT bad of stylistic-streak; can't help it if I got nothing but Dudley's second-hand clothes and standard school robes_ —I went ahead and complied with the passive-aggressive command.

 _How do I go about removing these hideous contacts? Oh, sod it_ — _I'll ask Hermione, she should know. Now, where have my glasses gone? Ah, just_ —

 _Forget it. I'll take that shower first, get rid of this horrible mohawk and god, are those_ . . . red streaks _in_ my _hair?_

I want to fucking die.

This can't possibly get any worse. But wait—I _can_ do something about this! It can't hurt to try.

"Dobby?"

Nothing.

"Wait—god, can't be serious. _Dobby?_ "

Still nothing.

"Fucking really?"

**It was worth a try** _**,** _ **wasn't it? Although I'll have to hand it to you, Harry—I did get writer's block once I wrote you trying it out, since he's supposed to be dead. Not like the plot cares, mind you.**

I sighed with relief. _Finally, somebody to make sense of all this. I don't bloody care how unusual it all is because goddamnit, I'm the bloody Master of Death_ — _a pretty spectacular position to be in despite the fact that_ I never asked for it— _and surely there's nothing more unusual than that!_

"Oi, listen: I got dragged into this piece of utter shite fanfiction where the self-inserting, walking fashion disaster worse than any one of Dumbledore's garish robes greeted me by shouting 'Bastard!' at my face, and what do I get for that? Her literal bloody spittle! It was disgusting, and— and then she— She looked at me funny! And, and _now_ , to try to make it all better through the magic of, well, fucking magic, your best idea is to _summon a house-elf?_ "

**I just apologised to you earlier—take it or leave it.**

"Okay, fine, fine. That's fine. But don't you _dare_ go bringing Dobby up here again. Even if he turns out to be alive for this. Anyway. What was your genius idea?"

**Get a computer.**

"What? _Why?_ For what purpose?"

**To start a chatroom.**

Pinching the bridge of my nose with impatience as I sensed the start of a particularly nasty headache— _and oh how I long for those Voldemort-induced headaches now of all times!_ —I obliged in asking the author hopefully the answer to my current predicament. "And how is _that_ exactly supposed to help me get out of this mess?"

 **For starters, to create an alias so you can communicate with your friends** — **you'll have to teach them the ways of the Internet—and for the** _ **real**_ **reason: To get your tragic story out there. I mean, what were you up to anyway? Did you defeat Voldemort and end up here?**

I paused to think, rubbing my scar subconsciously. I couldn't tell the author what really happened if Snape dissected my thoughts for me and read them to me as a bedtime story. And now _that_ intrusive thought is as disturbing as the Voldemort-scarlet-colored contact lenses. _God help me._

"It doesn't matter."

I frowned, looking at the ceiling, or wherever the voice was coming from. "So," I started, "an alias? I don't think I ever got to use a computer. What, am I just gonna have to wing it?"

**Yes.**

"Fine. I'll do it. So, where am I going to write my cry for help?"

**On a fanfiction website, of course!**

"Yeah, of course," I replied dryly, grabbing a hand-towel in the bathroom to at least rub the remainder of the horrid eyeliner out of my face; I'd rather not let Hedwig see me in this . . . absolutely mortifying state. _Oh, wait. She's still dead. Or,_ should _still be dead. How many people are still dead? How many got a second chance? Why am I thinking about this? Why do I care?_

 _Because you do care, you twit,_ a scathing part of me answered.

_What if she's alive here? Why do I bring my hopes up? God, my life is a bloody joke._

_That it is,_ that same part imparted ever so helpfully.

Grimacing on that last thought and still wearing these unfitting black clothes with names of bands I don't recognise, I ignore them, choosing to focus on riffling through my rucksack after marching out of the bathroom with the resolve to write up a letter to Mr Weasley. He might not know what a computer is, but a description could help. With that, I hastily started writing:

_Dear Mr Weasley,_

_Sorry to be a bother so soon after the start of the school year, but this is really urgent._

_Have you heard of a computer? It's a box shaped like a vertical prism with shining lights and buttons that when connected to one of those electrical outlets, it's able to turn on. I will also need a monitor to go with it. It looks like a small telly. These two Muggle parts come with cables. Do you think you have these items stored somewhere? I would be so grateful if you could somehow mail these to me as soon as possible. I'm not sure if Hedwig alone would be able to carry the load, let alone Errol, but with both, it's worth a try. Please let me know if you have these. If not, I'll pay you to buy these things for me out in the nearest Muggle town, or London, or whichever place is closest._

_And if you can't help with either, I'd still like to thank you for having me over the summer again (if that is how we spent our time before all this you-know-what happened). Your family has been so good to me._

_Love,_

_Harry_

Satisfied with the letter, I hurriedly made my way to the Owlery to get Hedwig—if she's alive again—on her way. Hopefully I won't have to wait too long before things get worse.

* * *

After getting done with the urgent matter (and seeing Hedwig at long last, which was such a load off my shoulders that I talked her ears off—do owls have ears?—until past curfew; I probably bored her to tears), I took my time getting back to Gryffindor Tower, feeling a bit light-hearted, yet cautious; the last thing I wanted was another encounter with some looney that ate cereal with blood.

Finally safe and sound in the warmth of my bed, I closed the curtains around myself for an early night's rest, wondering what Ron and Hermione were up to in this fanfiction. Before my imagination wandered too far off, I felt my mind give.

I dreamt a weird dream rivalling the one with Cho and the chocolate frogs. Disconcerted by the vision that followed it two years ago, I stood in the middle of the Room of Requirement with a jack-in-a-box and proceeded to wind it to completion. Nagini popped out—except the snake had some trepidation in her body language, making some sort of indescribable expression that creeped me out. I told her that she shouldn't have gotten in the box if she didn't want to look like some sort of terrifying parody of a snake, what, with all the eyeliner around her eyes. Nagini looked rather cross, narrowing those weird eyes and hissed out some particularly nasty retort, in turn transforming into a black inflatable balloon. I nodded in agreement of whatever she said. I took out the Elder Wand from my trousers in a strange zig-zag pattern—a corruption of the fancy flourish that Lockhart would be proud of.

As if my thought process was heard (but of course it was), Lockhart bombarded into the room in his hospital gown, looking cross-eyed as he held his arms wide in spastic rapture, proclaiming mechanically, "Harry, Harry, Harry—that's no way to treat your biggest fan! Looks like we need to work on your autographs," Lockhart finished with a wink.

A storm of autographs—which had an uncanny resemblance to the deluge of Hogwarts letters that I received what seemed like a life-time ago—glided and trembled into the room, emitting a roar of such great cacophony that I frantically—clumsily—made my way into the jack-in-the-box, closing the lid to take my leave. Nearly forgetting Nagini the Inflatable Balloon, I turned the wand into a pin, and 'popped' her out of existence as she reared her head towards the end of the lid—there was no 'pop' sound.

All of a sudden, I found myself back in the dark cupboard under the stairs, accompanied by a miniature Sun above my head with a rather dim brilliance. A toy replica of Nagini sat idly on a make-shift shelf by my pillow; next to her stood an equally plastic and inert Tom Riddle that wore the same vomit-inducing attire as I did today, and I made them talk to each other.

"Nagini," I said in a near-perfect imitation of that high-pitched, cold voice, "you must kill Harry Potter!"

In my right-hand, I made Nagini respond in a hiss, "But I must go to Brazil—it is the best place to go, amigo."

Riddle—me—uttered the Killing Curse nonchalantly, as if it were merely a Cheering Charm. His tiny wand shot out a green flare of light at my forehead.

An echo of mad laughter rung out in my ears as I shot up from my bed in a cold sweat, not fully awake yet. Nagini left me an echo in parting, speaking crossly—the way Mrs Weasley scolds her children—in a dangerous, sibilant whisper as the ringing in my ears intensified to a fever pitch, the low, hissing voice saying:

" _You're a prep."_

I quickly rubbed my eyes, willing myself to wake up faster so I could head off to breakfast and be in time for Potions—or, at least, I think that's the class I'm supposed to be going to. I decided to give it no more thought than it warranted.

Running my left hand over my bedraggled hair—it was back to random knots and stubborn stray ends; a sigh of relief escaped my lips, letting myself smile a little—I looked at the time off on my nightstand as my right pulled aside the curtain in a calculated move, the same hand lunging at the clock as it were a Snitch. My eyes went wide again. I cursed out loud in absolute irritation at myself, realising the dormitory lay empty.

I missed breakfast.


	2. Worse

"WHAT? You've got to be fucking joking," I yelled at the author as I struggled to put on the closest pair of trousers at the top of my trunk, nearly tripping as I clumsily fastened my robes as I breathed, huffed, and grunted in a futile effort to get dressed efficiently in a parody of a timely manner—or more like, whatever time I'm allotted, what that inconsiderate tart allowed, that is, _if_ she even bothered to!

_What if I don't get to wear what I want this time either?_

I cursed out-loud again at the thought and fell face-flat upon the carpeted Gryffindor floor after failing to put on a shoe, muffling a pitiful sob.

_Please_ — _the Cruciatus would be a kindness at this point. I'll take a good thump in the head of_ Hogwarts: A History.

_Or maybe Snape's jar of cockroaches._

_Yes_ — _that would do just fine._

**Not my fault the author of the lousy fanfiction decided to write the worst fanfiction ever.**

I lifted my head, eyes hard at the omnipresent lady supposedly typing away on her keyboard. "You're having a laugh, aren't you?" I said coldly.

_I hope you get writer's block!_

_Having fun at my expense, probably having a cuppa on the side—I just wanted a goddamn life after years of some megalomaniac chasing after me; after Sirius died, Fred died, Remus died, Tonks died, Snape died—_

_Oh wait, nevermind, the git is alive._

Then everything in my head came to a halt. _Oh fuck,_ I thought as realisation finally dawned on me.

_Everyone is . . . alive?_

"Oi, wait!"

I inhaled before continuing, driving back the wave of grief (the numbness saving me from it) that I held for all of them—Hermione would have so much to say about that, my 'saving people thing'. I mentally scoffed but looked forward to seeing her regardless.

"If everybody is alive . . . how could things be worse?"

**You have no idea.**

"Well then," I started with gritted teeth, stumbling and floundering back up in wild, flailing motions, forgetting for an instant that I had _one_ shoe left to put on, hands balled into fists, "GIVE ME SOME IDEA SO I DON'T CONTINUE TO LOOK LIKE A RIGHT FUCKING IDIOT!"

**Right then, understood. You don't have to sound so scary, you know—it's only a story.**

"I CAN BE AS LOUD AS I BLOODY-WELL WANT!"

I do realise this makes me sound like an even bigger idiot—or more like some petulant child, like Snape insisted I was for a good chunk of the part of my life that mattered—or more like what Dudley or Uncle Vernon would be like if he didn't get to the telly fast enough to watch his shows. _But I'd rather just get it over with and off myself from this stupid fanfiction if I don't get to express myself however I want before—_

"Harry?" A hesitant voice spoke from the doorway—a girl's.

_Hermione!_

I stopped my mental tirade—probably looking a bit mental myself at my pathetic attempt at getting dressed—turning sharply towards the voice. _Oh, sweet relief!_

"Hermione! Oh thank god, I was just about losing it and—" but I couldn't help but stop as I took in the sight that met me. I had a mouth, yet I couldn't scream, laugh, or cry, stunned into a disbelieving silence. The voice was solely Hermione's—there was no mistaking that nagging, yet fond, cadence—yet her . . . appearance . . . was extremely unlike any Hermione I could possibly conjure up even in my strangest of dreams.

I shook off the fleeting thought of the snake balloon and the cupboard, mentally shooing away the curious question (" _What's a prep, Nagini?"_ ) nagging at me at Nagini's parting words.

"Hermione . . . what— What _happened_ to you?"

I approached her, studying her new look. She seemed to be in a right state, a sense of unease about her. In a flash, Hermione flushed with anger, tears prickling at the corners of her eyes.

"What do _you_ think happened, Harry? Yesterday, you turned up looking like . . . like—"

"Just say it, Hermione," I said softly as I took hold of both her hands in comfort, not daring to meet her eyes—I don't want to remember yesterday.

"Like— a guy," said Hermione uncomfortably, "who failed their _West Side Story_ audition—as if one of those gang members got washed-up, took to drink, and stopped trying altogether. Might have been Voldemort if he were a Muggle," she chuckled wetly.

To my discomfort, I could see a girl about to cry from a mile away, so I tried my best to put on a mild face. She took away one hand from mine, touching my cheek, in turn, to make me look at her.

"I have no idea what the make-up department was thinking. Maybe they," Hermione sniffed, making a face, "took a hit of novocaine or something. Just— Harry. Please. Tell me I'm still . . ."

"What?" I said, trying to at least dart my eyes away as she tried to lock hers to mine as if to make _me_ accept the reality of our current predicament. Or maybe she's lost it, too. I about lost it when I noticed the red contacts in the bathroom yesterday. Perhaps this is her cry for help, just like my intrusive thoughts cry out silently for my acknowledgement.

". . . pretty," Hermione said almost inaudibly in a pitiful whimper, her voice trembling.

I've never been known to be a great comfort to others, especially to crying girls; I just bollocks it all up. Maybe my wording is just clumsy, or maybe I just never know the right thing to say, given my upbringing. Feeling like a berk—that would be Ron's job—I went ahead and told her what (I think?) she wanted to hear: "You're still pretty."

"NO I'M NOT!" she shrieked, finally letting all the tears—and copious amounts of white make-up—loose as she hit my chest with bunched up fists.

"What did I do wrong _now_?" I moaned, exasperated, venting all my years of frustration with the enigma that is the female gender.

_Good gods above: will I_ ever _get it right?_

Her hands violently fisted clumps of her black hair, looking well on her way to being Bellatrix's long-lost sister. "NO! I mean, YES! Wait— Oh, Harry, you're just—" Hermione blubbered uncharacteristically and sobbed, a mess of contradictions pouring out of her mouth.

Suddenly, shutting her eyes and taking a deep inhale through her nose in an impressive display of self-control, she let all that frustration and anger go in one prolonged exhale out her lips. Hermione blinked her eyes open slowly, a semblance of sanity entering her features as she studied me from head to toe.

She spoke quietly, readily wiping away one last errant teardrop as soon as it fell on her right cheek.

"Who are we, Harry? Who am I?"

Hermione hesitated, but held my gaze regardless, asking, "Who were _you_ yesterday?"

"Do you _really_ want to know? And does it matter that much, Hermione?"

I involuntarily flinched, increasingly uncomfortable with her insistence at having me look at the scarlet eyes.

Her eyes turned wide as saucers, her complexion blanching, realising what she has been trying to do was not in the least helpful after, say, a one-sided duel in a graveyard and a body-possession that thankfully went awry. Among other incidents, of course—just what passes for normal in my freaky life. _I wonder what it'd be like to have a difficult life,_ I recall telling her sarcastically with underlying envy. It's a good thing Ron laughed back then because Hermione—as usual—heard it for what I really wanted to mean. She frowned, just like she was doing this instant.

"I— I guess it doesn't. Not really," said Hermione, a hopeful and subdued inflexion in her voice as she mercifully averted her eyes to the side and hugged herself, tacitly apologising.

_Well, this has gone on long enough._

I put an arm on her shoulder gently. "Help me get these god-awful contact lenses out, Hermione—I slept in them. I about gave up trying yesterday afternoon."

"Did you?" asked Hermione doubtfully, smiling a bit as she tentatively met my eyes.

I shot her a guilty grin, conceding defeat. "I really do need your help though, Hermione—these lenses . . ." I uttered a weary sigh, shoulders sagging. "They have to go. It feels like I'm wearing Riddle's knickers."

Hermione coughed out a laugh, shaking her head in half distaste, half amusement.

"Is that so?" she began, smiling grimly. "Try waking up wearing this appalling black wig with the likeness of Bellatrix Lestrange. You know. The bint who gets off on torture. Whose wand I cannot stand to touch, let alone look at without feeling the slightest bit repulsed," whispered Hermione as she jerked a hand to brush back fly-away strands of curly hair. "She was a nuisance. And— I swear, Harry, the itch I get on my scalp is _not_ nerves. Oh, I just can't wait to hex the bimbo who thought it a great idea to make me crossdress as two of the most hated people in Wizarding Britain's history!"

I gave her a wan smile, going back to holding her hands. "Me, too, Hermione. Me, too."

"And do you know what that self-absorbed bird called me in passing this morning?"

"What?" I asked with shameless, almost giddy anticipation.

"B'loody," Hermione stifled a snort, gradually growing into derisive laughter as she dramatically said, "Mary Smith!

"I insisted that my last name is Granger! But she kept interrupting me, telling me my _real_ life story: that I was kidnapped at birth, that my _real_ parents are vampires—and imagine _the shock of my life_ when she told me that my mum was _actually_ a witch!—that Voldemort killed my mother, that my father killed himself out of despair, and that she understands my pain and suffering. 'You're such a tragic person, Mary—your nightmares must be so awful!' She insists that we haunt the castle together as if we were— _best friends_ ," she uttered with disgust, rolling her eyes so hard I was sure they would ride out of the back of her head—I grinned at the thought.

Hermione seemed to have lost some brain cells mid-rant, shooting me a glazed, exhausted look that was really unbecoming of her. I felt for her—I really did.

Yet I burst out laughing like a madman, my sides hurting as I gasped for air, trying to reconcile this side of Hermione to the one who went as far as buying me a talking homework planner for the sake of my stupid grades (I mean, really, I was a bit busy that year trying to get a good kip before the grand finale). It was no good—the longer I thought of her as some blood-sucking caricature hell-bent on relentlessly feeding on her thrall of deathly frightened first-years squealing in fear (the rhyming planner singing in the background, ' _Scream, my pretties, but fear her not! Or have your blood drained on the spot!'_ ), the harder I howled and wheezed, hoping to catch my breath soon enough. Feeling the tears on my face, it didn't fail my notice that my eyes were starting to get painfully dry with the dreadful contact lenses still attached to my eyes.

Rubbing my hands repeatedly over my eyes, the movement seems to have brought her back to the present instead of whatever scowling face she might have made at me during my temporary loss of sanity.

"Oh, I remember now where I was now— _Smith!_ Apparently my recent conversion to Satanism means I am no longer a Gryffindor. Guess who's in Slytherin now."

"P-please, Hermione, _stop!_ " I begged, holding my hands up as I tried to hold back any more bouts of the laughter. "I get it—not a vampire, nor a Slytherin. Not that it would matter anyway at this juncture, eh?"

I looked into her eyes and smiled, saying sincerely: "You're Hermione. Just Hermione."

She smiled fondly back, still standing as I lay on the floor and gathered my wits—and my dignity—back into their rightful place, which would be somewhere in my head where it hopefully wouldn't spill over in an untimely manner next time. It wouldn't do to make a habit of laughing myself into hysterics, especially with these ghastly contacts. I can only hope I won't have to wear them for long.

_The sooner this fanfiction resolves itself, the better._

Noting my red-rimmed eyes, Hermione got right down to business. It was so wonderful to see her in good spirits again.

"All right, 'Just Harry'. Let me show you how to get those contacts off. For next time."

At that, my mood darkened. "Right. For next time."

I couldn't help but frown, concerned about what these awful costumes meant for my sanity. Ebony—so vampire tart says her real name is—better not have anything much worse.

**Oh, but Harry, it** _ **is**_ **much worse.**

"OH MY FUCKING GOD!" Hermione startled violently, darting wild, goofily red-tinted eyes in search for the voice and tripped over me—I choked on a silent scream after she accidentally kneed my groin—making to get back up before she went off like a bomb. "WHO ON EARTH ARE YOU AND—have you been listening to us _this whole time_?"

**Yes.**

Hermione laughed hollowly, eyes showing nothing but scorn. "What, is asking for privacy too much for you?"

**Privacy is not the issue at hand—the bad state of this fanfiction is.**

"Too right," I grunted out, grimacing as I slowly got back up, and felt the anger build up at the author, at the world— _at the unfairness of it all? I don't even know anymore._

I spun to face Hermione, looking past the pasty make-up and wig—and the aching pit at the bottom of my stomach—to discuss the plan in place. "Hermione, I'm getting a computer."

" _What?_ But _why?_ What's the point? Oh, Harry, don't tell me you forgot that electronics at Hogwarts _can't_ work—there is too much magic in this castle!"

**Bully for us then.**

"WHAT?" I exploded. "First Dobby, and now you completely forgetting this _slightly_ important detail?"

"Wait, Harry!" said Hermione abruptly. "It may not be the holidays any time soon, _but_ we _could_ probably make it work at the Shrieking Shack, or— Ottery St. Catchpole! The Weasleys, Harry! I think we could make—"

"But," I mused out loud, enthusiastic at the possibilities, "how would we sneak out of the castle while the disaster plays out before us?"

"Harry, that's exactly it!" Hermione exclaimed triumphantly. "We are in a bad fanfiction—who in their right mind is going to care where you, Ron, and I go in scenes where we are absent, and anyone else for that matter? It's not like that terror actually thought of a cohesive plot that goes somewhere. The story is largely centred around her and Draco Malfoy's oddly-timed sexual escapades. No one is going to miss us," concluded Hermione with a confident gleam in her eyes, beaming a huge smile that spoke of imminent relief from this hellish plot. "We are going to be—"

"No, we are NOT going to be fine!" roared a gruffer-sounding voice that cracked in the middle. It wasn't slightly reedy like my voice, yet it wasn't quite a man's voice—yet.

Attempting to hide my grin, I stepped aside—the other missing shoe be damned—to let them have at it. "Merlin, Hermione, this bad fanfiction must have really gotten to you—one'd be mental to think no one will miss us!"

Hermione gasped—all she needed was a pearl necklace to clutch to truly capture her indignation—and strode forward in a menacing display of authority. Ron slightly winced at her pointed finger, jabbing his chest, tempered not to wither under her inscrutable, condescending look.

I decide it's safer to blend into the background, plopping down comfortably on my bed to watch the fireworks.

"Ohh-ho, that's rich coming from you, Ronald Weasley, considering the fact that your head probably plays, rewinds and repeats every time some bimbo makes doe eyes at you!" said Hermione in an accusatory, cold tone.

_If looks could kill . . ._ I held back a snicker, muffling it into the arm of my sleeve.

"OI!"

Ron stepped aside from her verbal attack, gesturing in a mollifying manner at her jabbing finger.

"Take it easy, Hermione! Look, think about it: I'm just saying, that bird"—at this description, Hermione's expression visibly softened—"has not just been hanging around Malfoy. How could _you_ "—Ron pulled at the ends of the jet-black catastrophe with hints of blue sitting atop his head, his disgust evident—" _not_ _notice_ her blatant attempts at befriending _us_?" Ron gestured carelessly towards themselves (I need not be included). "It's pathetic and rather uncharacteristic of you of all people not to notice if you ask me," Ron ended with a shrug.

"Oh, honestly, Ron! Could you not have said that first instead of outright accusing me of being mental?"

" _No!_ " said Ron in frustration. I felt the amused smirk fall away from my face as I took in what he was trying to get across. I re-adjusted myself on the bed, sitting at the end of it to pay full attention. "I mean— Look, both of you, listen! We are _not_ going to be fine. _That's the problem:_ the original author can change our personalities on a whim, or whatever twisted idea came over her after being knocked on the head once too many times! What if we _don't_ make it to my house at the right time in this story? What are we going to do then, Hermione? You tell me! Harry," I stood up too quickly and bumped my head hard on the top of the curtain holder, but ground out a feeble "What?" as I hissed through the jolt of pain, rubbing at the centre of my head.

"Mate, I have no clue how a cum-pewter works, but I have a gut feeling—that gut that _you_ should be trusting, Harry!—that we're running short on time: _our_ time! Quick, Harry, What is a Chad room, and why do we have to make allies?"

"Er," I tried to start, but once again, Hermione saved me from making a fool of myself and wasting precious time, eager to pounce on a question she knew the answer to.

" _Com_ -puter, Ron. And a _chat_ room is a place where people gather on the Internet to talk by typing words on a screen, and 'aliases' or 'usernames' would be how we present ourselves to the World Wide Web," she explained expertly.

Ron paled, stuttering out, "A-a worldwide w-web?"

"Not like a spider web, Ronald! More like addresses that take us to sites we wish to visit on the Internet."

"Seems a bit rude, doesn't it?" inquired Ron. "Don't we have to knock first or something?"

"No—! Goodness, we don't have time for this! _Moving on,_ " said Hermione, brushing off a long, black strand of hair off her cheek. "We need to come up with our usernames now for when we make and visit our chatroom later! Just don't make it your name and your year of birth—"

"Why not?" Ron asked, confused, scratching his screaming not-red hair. "Wouldn't that make it easier to remember? You make it sound like we have to memorise these for life or something!"

"Because, Ron," answered Hermione, her patience thinning and growing increasingly tense by the rushed circumstances, "someone could use that to steal your identity!"

"Blimey," Ron breathed.

I didn't want to admit I had not known that. I gave Hermione a grateful look, and deeming it safe enough—head thrumming less from the bump earlier—I stood to join them. "I guess mine will have to do when I first joined the Quidditch team. Is that sound, Hermione?"

"That'll have to do; you don't exactly make it easy to hide your identity," said Hermione sympathetically.

"But on the bright side," added Ron, "I highly doubt there are many wizards and witches on the Inter-webs to worry ourselves sick over anyway."

"I can see that," I agreed. "What's yours gonna be, Ron?"

Ron puffed out his chest, for a moment channelling Percy as he intoned, "Percival1994—Ministry man."

Hermione's facial expression couldn't decide whether to laugh or cry. "But what if Percy decides to join with that exact same username, Ron? Don't you think he would grow suspicious?"

"Who cares," said Ron flippantly. "It's Percy! What business would that pompous git have on a place like the Inter-webs?"

She looked mockingly thoughtful, unconsciously rubbing away a remainder of the pasty substance congealing around her chin—it reminded me of tiny scraps of leftover cookie dough speckled all over her face; that crying spell did a number on her, but no way am I telling her that unless I want a good slap in the face. On second thought, I might need that—and hummed before lashing out some rot about common sense in response.

"I don't know, Ronald—an ambitious Ministry man . . . Hmm, if only there were some way to expand his connections _worldwide_ so that Percy could _connect_ with other people for international job opportunities!"

"Oh, come off it, Hermione!" scowled Ron. "He's comfortable here! I can't imagine him wanting to set foot outside of Britain unless it gave him the chance to kiss the Minister's hairy—"

"It's time," I said flatly, listening to my gut as a sense of fatality and foreboding built in the air. I glimpsed at the clock on top of my nightstand. "Potions."

I felt my dry throat clench. How am I going to be dressed this time? Am I going to be. . . different? Act different?

Wait just a moment, what am I freaking out for? I defeated Voldemort!

I've faced worse things than this!


	3. The Death Master or Worse Things Than That One Time You Became Master of Death

Malfoy walked into the Potions classroom, completely starkers. A rather sad lament wailed out of his mouth. I cringed inwardly yet a part of me was dying—in mirthful tears really, to my irritation, given the situation—at the spectacle Malfoy made of himself. The less indulgent part of me recognised the behaviour for what it was and what it could mean, leaving me breathless—terror-struck at what was imminent.

_I'm next._

I would have laughed myself into an early grave had it not been for how frigid the stale air had become here as our lively professor—and I genuinely (almost) do pity the poor sod now—furiously shouted with the most contorted, unfathomable expression—one that could not be of this world that I've grown to love; last I saw that face was shortly after Dumbledore's death. _Except he's not dead either,_ I reminded myself as I closed my eyes, waiting— _wishing_ —for the air to implode us all, the intense pressure undoubtedly coming from a certain Potions Master's ire.

" _What is it that you desire, you ridiculous dimwit!"_

I should have worn layers.

" _Vampire"_ — _please end it, cast Crucio, I don't care, just spare me and everyone else the embarrassment,_ I practically drilled holes at Snape's eyes, pleading to make it stop—" _I can't believe you cheated on me with Draco!"_

A mass intake of breath broke all across the cold dungeon, pungent fumes of Valerian root lingering in the air as potion after potion—the Draught of Living Death seemed to be fitting, merciful even, for anybody that wanted an early out; nothing like a short kip to lighten the mood—spoiled from sitting unstirred and untended to for too long.

Malfoy made the strangest facial expressions, stranger than Snape's, eyeing me with the weirdest scrutiny. It felt awkward, confusing, and— Did he just . . . _wink_ at me? Is— is that a heart tattoo? Why does it say—

_Bloody hell, I better not make a complete arse of myself_.

" _But I'm not going out with Draco anymore!"_

Oh, fuck my life!

" _Yeah fucking right! Fuck off, you bastard!"_

What the fuck? _What did I do to deserve this?_

The emotionally volatile girl with questionable intentions ran out of the dungeon, leaving one mortified Draco Malfoy near the doorway, his face long-clear of the pronounced mess of emotions that resided upon it minutes before. The icy and dense atmosphere began to dissipate—except for the creepy blue steamy fog of Living Death hanging in the air. It reeks of my feet after a game of Quidditch. I held back an urge to vomit.

"What was _that_?" asked Hermione. _At least she looks better than yesterday—sort of._

Malfoy closed in on himself, trembling like a jackhammer as Snape took off his outer cloak to make him decent.

"I . . . do not know," Snape said uncertainly, looking like he got a case of Dudley's flu.

"I— and s-she— I didn't," Malfoy stuttered incoherently.

Parkinson, Zabini, Crabbe, and Goyle—the latter two part-troll in nature if the Fiendfyre in the former razed-in-a-stupid-hot-blazing-cursed-inferno Room of Requirement had any say in the matter (as much as I wished a room would talk). Why are they even here?—cautiously gathered around Malfoy in some sort of protective circle. I felt like an intruder in this room. I couldn't help but feel slightly guilty now at the thought of having just implied Crabbe and Goyle's ancestors had sexual relations with dancing trolls once upon a time. Hermione lifted me out of my short reverie with a nudge and a pull of my sleeve, scowling at my faraway-ness and the scene that played out before us.

The Slytherin classmates said nothing as they grimly, somberly, paraded Malfoy out of the classroom. Where they were headed was not for me to guess.

But I did anyway.

_The Infirmary, probably. Maybe Madame Pomfrey could get some sort of mind healer_ —if they exist— _from St. Mungo's to drop by every now and then as we bear through this silly plot . . . ._

I found myself a little peeved by my newly resigned thought pattern. I might as well let another Dark Lord have a go at me; let every plot device die with our dignity intact.

There was a long, slightly uncomfortable silence that I couldn't quite stand.

"Is there _anything_ we can do to stop her?" I asked in a whisper, shifting my sight from everyone else. "There has to be."

I focused on a lone corner, where I imagined everyone feels where they—and myself—got backed into. I imagine one of us would most likely piss ourselves. Make the cheesy aroma in the classroom worse.

_Stop it!_

An even longer silence passed.

_You know what, I don't care. It's Potions_ — _I don't even like Potions! I don't like being here. I feel like walking out while I still can—_

"No," I heard Snape say at last. _How helpful._ "But. A warning."

He blinked slowly with a blank expression—a quiet fury building if I ever saw one—as if trying to clear any foggy thought from his conscience.

_That is if the paranoid git even has such disorganised thoughts. Probably not. I know I got loads of useless ones. I wonder if Snape ever imagines anybody pissing themselves in a corner. Probably would get off of it, too. Pervert._

And now I am about done because I think my sanity may have officially left the building. I want to bang my head against the castle walls, self-punish in some way. _Self-flagellation . . ._

I don't even know what 'flagellation' is. Probably something to do with flags.

"I see the writing on the wall." Snape paused. "I suggest every one of you do the same. You'd have to be a complete dunderhead not to."

And at last, I felt Snape's gaze shift furtively to me, boring into my eyes with his signature penetrating glare as soon as I covertly met his. He uttered almost mockingly, "And a message to the _brave of heart_ : you achieve nothing if you go out to do anything out of the ordinary in a misguided attempt to save everyone."

The message loud and clear (or whatever Snape was _trying_ to convey to me—it's guesswork as always with him), I felt the urge to gag increase under pressure. Or was it the stinky cheese smell from my latest potions mess? (It doesn't help that I know "the Half-Blood Prince's" recipe by memory, but the theatre Ebony and Draco performed was far more entertaining than stirring clockwise eight times—or was it counter-clockwise?) It reminds me a bit of Uncle Vernon's dirty socks.

And with that thought, I may just about throw up last night's supper.

"Sorry," I said as I pulled out an oddly-patterned, brightly-coloured handkerchief from my robes, wrinkling my nose at it and pretending I had sniffles when in reality, I just wanted to heave in there and hope nothing comes out. I subtly drew my eyes away in turn.

Another 'saving people' plot can't hurt as much as last time. I didn't dare deign him with a panicked acknowledgement—the standard frenzied Legilimentic answer—when all was not quite well.

All the better. Things will eventually all be well.


	4. Crookshanks - The Phantom Scourge of a Thousand Excruciating Curses of Everlasting Torment

"Crookshanks!"

We were back in the Gryffindor Common Room after about an hour of self-maintenance in the man's—boy's—room (I'm a year too old for this place, not like the magic wore off; just feels awkward being surrounded by little kids in the hallways after making our way out of Potions— _both_ Creeveys won't stop following me around now; I had to trick them into one of Filch's supply closets to get them off my tail to have a moment's peace. I locked it for good measure because fuck it: they are wizards—they can figure it out. If not? Well, it's not my problem anymore, is it? Oh god, it is. Now I feel like a complete berk. Oh well. I can't be arsed now).

Hermione came back down first. Expecting to see her nose burrowed deep into her books as I made my way downstairs—feeling good as new after contemplating on our recently approved plan to seek out outside help—I was taken aback at seeing looking rather worried, shifting her eyes restlessly as she rummaged, surveyed, and searched around the room for apparently the better part of an hour according to Lavender Brown—also very much alive.

I can't be arsed to feel more aggrieved anymore—the numbness that barely passes for Occlumency will do. _Not like I missed Lav-Lav's 'Won-Won' shite from more than a year ago. And there I go again. 'Lav-Lav'. I think I have about gone round the bend by now._

"Harry!"

Hermione lunged forward at seeing me and held me firmly—a tad too firmly—by the shoulders. I couldn't help the second-hand embarrassment by the scene she was making. "Harry, where is Crookshanks?"

"Wha—"

"WHERE IS CROOKSHANKS?" she screeched like a banshee into my ear, feeling the ringing aftereffect of an abused eardrum.

"Oi, calm down, Hermione!" I narrowed my eyes, nursing my ringing left ear with my left hand, but softened my features because well, it's Hermione. And that's what I'm supposed to do with girls. I think.

"What do you mean, 'where is Crookshanks?' Shouldn't he be, you know, around? Listen, he may be a half-Kneazle, but it's still a cat—"

"CROOKSHANKS"—Hermione gesticulated frantically like a fiendish Cornish Pixie, a fierce glint in her eyes, pupils wilting behind brown irises as she pitched her voice into a shrill and haunting imitation of Aunt Petunia discovering her Diddykins behind the glass at the zoo—"IS NOT JUST A CAT!"

"Okay, fine," I raised my voice, acceding the point and simultaneously trying to bring her back to Earth as I settled my hands down upon her shoulders in a comforting way. "Crookshanks is _not_ just a cat, right, got it! Okay?"

Hermione froze—her hands in return tightened on my shoulders like a vice grip, whispering a strenuous "Okay" before she let go. I patted her shoulders awkwardly to try to ease the tension in them, taking a step back before inquiring any further about her cat— _Kneazle_ —problem.

"What's the matter, Hermione? You've been scaring half the common room for the past hour," I smiled apologetically, daring to grin impishly at her to at least put some part of her mind at ease. "So I've heard."

An embarrassed, nervous laugh escaped her. Unfortunately, her complexion took the same dark turn that it had taken before, souring her normally kind-yet-condescending face. I miss that face now.

Hermione glowered at those staring at her in silent bewilderment—they promptly looked away, at least pretending to busy themselves with other matters—and saddened just as quickly, the emotion mutating into an anxiety that would not go away.

"Oh, Harry," she eventually confided, sounding weary, " I just can't seem to find Crookshanks anywhere. What if—" Hermione wavered, visibly trying to fight back tears. "What if Crookshanks saw something in me he didn't like?"

"Oh, come on, Hermione," I said smoothly, "do you _really_ think that after all that we've been through that _now_ , _of all times_ , Crookshanks would just up and leave you? Doesn't make a knick of sense, does it? And listen: think differently for a moment and imagine the scenarios in which Crookshanks would surely leave." Hermione nodded as if complying with a teacher's sound advice, her face looking mindful and engaged in deep contemplation.

"Well?" I prodded kindly. "Did any of the scenarios happen recently?"

Hermione shook her head, tenuously, mumbling, "No."

"But you don't seem to be put any more at ease by that response," I frowned in equal contemplation. "If none of the scenarios happened and Crookshanks is still not milling and meowing about your personal space anymore, then where does that put Crookshanks?"

Her face took an ashen appearance, as she breathed out in a rush, "Crookshanks'beenkidnapped!"

"Kidnapped?" I asked doubtfully, becoming far more confused than I felt at the start. "What makes you say that, Hermione?"

"I . . . don't know," said Hermione tentatively with wary eyes, "but I just have a feeling."

It wasn't long after this conversation that I nodded off to bed and was subsequently struck with a vision of said missing cat— _Kneazle._

In the dream, I took it upon myself to check where Crookshanks could have gone.

In the dream, I walked barefoot on the Forbidden Forest's soft soil.

In the dream, Tom Riddle showed up fully transformed into that shocking amalgamation that he proclaimed to be a body. Instead of flying unassisted as any Dark Lord would, he flew upon a broomstick in a smooth flow of black robes.

In the dream, a girly screech echoed into the night. To my dream-self's dismay, I thought I misheard the spells being cast—badly.

" _Crookshanks!"_ That same grating voice shouted not at me, but at Voldemort.

In the dream, Riddle fell off his broom; his screams rent the night air.

" _Crookshanks,"_ the gnarled, obscured trees seemed to whisper and whistle into the wind with every touch of branch and twig. The cat's— _Kneazle's_ —name also rent the night air.

" _Crookshanks!"_ the cadence of the voice changed into one so cold, so harrowing; if the Cruciatus Curse had a voice, it would be that. _Now it becomes so clear._

In the dream, " _Crookshanks . . ."_ was not "Crookshanks" but instead gave way to " _Crookshanks!"_ The strange inflexion in the voice . . . The intent crystal clear. The will to do what must be done.

It all made sense now.

In the dream, _Crookshanks_ became the dawn of a new age of torture curse; a curse unlike any other. Intone _Crookshanks_ and your enemy will fall.

And in reality, I woke with a start, stuck in a state of fugue. After I yawned, I uttered drowsily, suddenly annoyed, "What the fuck?" before dropping like a dead weight right back to sleep. Actual sleep. Not proverbial sleep. _Just like I know how to find Crookshanks and . . . not the proverbial_ —

_Stop it!_

I think I deserve to dream of other things now. I relaxed and breathed a steady breath as I felt myself falling into a wonderfully deep sleep . . . .

" _Ebony, thou must kill Vampire Potter!"_ a looming black-robed figure announced melodramatically, surrounded by a densely-forested stretch of obscure and disfigured trees. I shut my eyes tighter, desperately hoping that I could will away the unbidden vision. Finding a few seconds peace, I relaxed the ends of my eyelids, dozing off again . . . .

" _No, Voldemort!"_ a girl shouted in reply, resonating into the darkness behind my eyes . . . .

Is . . . is that a fucking gun?

" _No! Please!"_ the voice pleaded despite accepting said gun.

I begin to wonder if it is possible to exit life through my dreams.

" _Thou must! If thou does not, then I shall kill thy beloved Draco!"_

" _How did you know?"_ A pause as Voldemort twisted his features weirdly.

" _I hath telekinesis."_

I feel my body tremble, twist and turn in my 'sleep', breaking into an icy-cold sweat as I struggle to accept that yes, if the scenario playing in my 'dreams' is possible, then the possibility of taking stage-left and exiting said life through the backdoor of my dreams is not just attenable—I could give it a good old-fashioned try before my mind becomes corrupted by the backwash of unfathomably awful fanfiction.

I take sweet, silent comfort in this tentative state of sleep, a smile creeping upon my lips as I adjusted my head on the pillow. _At least I am not the proofreader._

" _And if you doth not kill Vampire, then thou know what will happen to Draco!"_ the strange parody of the high-pitched, cold voice ended as Voldemort mounted his broomstick, working himself into a fury as he shot into the sky.

Is it day? Is it night? I don't know, and frankly, I can't be bothered to give a damn about it as I settle into a steady breathing rhythm, _finally_ allowed the relief of sleep . . . .

_A dishevelled, tacky and even more miserable-looking Draco Malfoy stumbled into the woods. The self-proclaimed vampire lady greeted him enthusiastically. Malfoy listlessly sounded out the word 'Hi' yet his expression was looking far worse for wear. A generous amount of colourless foundation gave Malfoy a pallid, cadaverous complexion. He looked better suited for a midnight romp at a graveyard_ —if graveyards even have those, you daft moron; _my dream-self grimaced at the self-insult. The godforsaken eyeliner was back in full-force, crude black strokes painting an upside-down star upon his face. The she-devil asked if he was okay. "No," Malfoy answered blankly, seeming to stare off into the far distant crevices of the Forbidden Forest._

" _I'm sorry I got all mad at you but I thought you cheated on me,"_ the blood-sucking amateur make-up artist prattled on, failing to notice—or was oblivious to—Malfoy's less than okay responses. They walked back to Hogwarts attached to each other's mouths like leeches.

The vision only drifted to let me actually rest after it shot me a frightening preview of what tomorrow would bring.

I never thought I could hate 'gothic metal bands' so much. I damned Voldemort, the Death Eaters, Dumbledore and even Snape for not being capable of producing enough hate to counter the experience that awaits me a few hours from now. My right eye twitched as I resigned myself to get up from the bed after a sleepless night, shooting Ron a despairing glance as he, too, resigned himself to being bandmates with Ebony.

" . . . Mate," Ron called my attention with trepidation.

"What?" I answered as I subconsciously started dressing up in . . . whatever these garbs are.

"I have to tell you something," whispered Ron, darting paranoid glances across the dormitory to check that nobody else was there eavesdropping.

"All right," I sighed as I automatically headed to the bathroom with Ron to put on the— "what is it?" I tried to think of anything of great importance that Ron could possibly impart to me before we say good-bye to our dignity.

"Harry, " Ron started hesitantly, "y'know Hermione's name that bird gave her, yeah?"

"Yeah," I answered uneasily as I went through the motions, unable to look at myself in the mirror. Mercifully, the passive-aggressive mirror stayed silent. "B'loody Mary Smith."

"And yours is—"

"Vampire," I bit out, leaving a bad taste in my mouth. _Or was that the powdery, pasty foundation?_

Ron gave a pained look as he transfigured his hair black with blue streaks, swiftly putting down his wand on the counter as if burned. "You don't need to tell me, you know."

I turned to look at him, cocking my head and not daring to look at the final result of my labour. "You'll always be ickle Ronny kins, Ronald, and Won-Won to me," I winked, breaking into grinning then cackling laughter when he thumped me hard on my back.

"And I called Hermione mental," Ron said weakly, but regained his composure at my nightmare-inducing make-over—I'm sure Ron feels like he fared better. "You're a madman."

"But I'm _your_ madman," I purposely pouted in an insufferable way.

"Ugh, mate! Never _ever_ say or look like that again," said Ron sullenly. "It's quite unlike you."

"After today?" I chanced to ask.

"After today," Ron declared, folding his arms, but extended his right arm for a shake on it.

"So be it," I grinned, more than willing to throw myself at this illusion that held the promise of no more visions, no more foundation, and best of all, not a single trace of black. No wait—

**That didn't come out—**

"Please—not right now," I exhaled a long-suffering sigh, closing my eyes in succession as I silently thought of Sirius. "Just let me make my own mistakes," I pleaded with the author briefly as Ron and I made our way out of the dormitories and into the dark side.

**So be it.**

_That doesn't sound like it bodes very well for me. I've already died. I don't see how one measly mistake is going to do me in for sure this time._

_Oi, wait, I gotta tell Hermione about Crookshanks—_

**Trust me when I say you won't need to** — **Crookshanks will turn up eventually. But I've got a slightly more important matter than a lost Kneazle that I feel I must inform you about.**

"Harry," Ron whispered. "I'm scared."


	5. The Band Rehearsal - The Happy Times, The Best of Times

**Spoiler alert, Harry—you end up screwing Ebony.**

"WAIT, NO!" I panicked, dropping my guitar— _or am I playing percussion? Oh bloody hell, just fuck it, wait DON'T—_

"Ebony, where's Crookshanks?" asked Hermione in a corridor straight-ahead—

"STOP THE STORY!" I said, livid, my limbs feeling like lead.

**Harry, your limbs almost always feel like lead.**

I squinted at the ceiling. Hard. "Fuck you!"

**That's no way to speak to the author. You said you wanted me to let you make your own mistakes, did you not?**

"YES!"

**So what has changed?**

I stood there agape, running my shaking hands tremulously through my transfigured hair. I glowered at the author, screaming out, "BECAUSE YOU JUST TOLD ME THAT I HAVE SEXUAL INTERCOURSE WITH A SELF-PROCLAIMED AND SELF-OBSESSED VAMPIRE LADY, THAT'S WHY, YOU STUPID—"

**Fine.**

"Wait, hold on! What d'you mean, 'fine'?" I pushily inquired for a fully-elaborated response, hoping that I can stare as good as Snape, or at least enough to—

**I get it.**

"You haven't answered my question," I said coldly.

**All right, from the beginning then. Firstly, I kindly informed you that the original author's purpose with you is to engage in sexual relations** — **what kind is up to her, not me. Secondly, you loudly cried out, 'WAIT, NO!' and proceeded to make word salad in your head as I pushed the story along, then you yelled out at the top of your lungs, loud enough to raise the dead, declaring to the world to 'STOP THE STORY!' Thirdly, I insisted that you almost always feel like your limbs feel like lead, and consequently, you cursed me. And lastly, I asked for your clarification in regards to allowing you to make your own mistakes, to which you exclaimed a rather emphatic 'YES!' I then asked you what changed your mind so soon, and you began to explain yourself in impassioned fury as to why I should 'stop the story'. And here we are.**

"Wait, so you're going to _stop_ the story?" I asked, hope rising.

**Yes** — **and no.**

I felt like setting the author on fire at the non-committal answer. "That's not good enough."

**Obviously, the best solution would be to push the story along and have you all go back to your lives instead of staying stuck in a permanent 'work-in-progress' fanfiction** — **a state of limbo, if you will. Purgatory.**

I felt myself draining of all colour. "Oh," I said faintly.

**You're not the only one going through hell, as you well know.**

Remembering Malfoy's terrifying predicament, I nodded reluctantly in agreement. "I know." I bleakly went through a mental list of people that would most likely be violated by this fanfiction. "I worry about Malfoy's mental well-being. My friends. Hell, Snape even. I worry about Remus. About Hagrid," I said, feeling gradually disheartened; I repeatedly attempted to remember the good times.

It isn't working out very well.

**What if I told you that I could briefly cut you and Draco Malfoy a break? Give you time to check on Mr Weasley's response, if any? Mind, it would barely be any time at all, but it's better than nothing. You two do show up in this lousy fanfiction frequently.**

I scowled, looking back down at the tips of my trainers as I asked another question. "Would I be allowed to interact with the rest of the people I'm worried about?"

**Yes. Just be aware that you will not be able to have all the time in the world. Keep your wits about you, and** _ **try**_ **to plan accordingly. And don't be surprised if anything ends prematurely** — **this story exacerbates the problem. Choose who you trust with great caution, Harry.**

"I will," I promised.

I strayed off the path of the plot—if any—and headed in a sprint to see Snape, Dumbledore and with any luck, Sirius.

As I pivoted around a sharp corner, I ran straight into Remus instead.

**Interested?**

I sighed. "I'm not going to bother asking."

"Who are you talking to, Harry?" asked Remus with a furrowed eyebrow and shifting eyes, a confused expression around the folds of old scars and wounds on his face. "Are you okay?"

"I don't think any of us are okay, Remus," I said softly as I nervously brushed off invisible dust on my . . . shirt. "I need to find Sirius—do you know where he's at?"

Remus frowned. "I haven't a clue, Harry. You, uh—" He cleared his throat, "Your hair—"

"I know," I bristled, replying too forcefully, "please— _don't_ remind me where my place is here."

An awkward pause. "Right," said Remus, taking a step back in an effort to lessen the heat of humiliation. "Sorry."

"Don't," I said tersely. "It's fine—really."

"Right," repeated Remus, making it even more awkward than it already felt.

"Anyway," I spared him the effort, "if you don't know where Sirius is in the middle of all this, do you at least know where Dumbledore and Snape are at right now?" I asked, adding, "I ended up having to trust them most in the, er, end. You know."

Remus sighed heavily. "Yes. I know. And by that, I mean—"

"You don't need to—"

"But I have to, Harry," Remus interrupted. "I'm not leaving you here alone with those thoughts. Not after our last altercation."

"I'm sorry," I said in a raspy voice, my throat dry. I brought out my wand and the garish handkerchief, transfiguring it into a cup and cast _Aguamenti_ , downing the water in a rush. Water dribbled down my chin; I started hacking out a rough cough from swallowing too fast, putting my arm to my mouth to not up-chuck any spittle to Remus, who was looking at me strangely, fondly shaking his head and— chuckled. "You really don't know how to hold a normal conversation, do you, Harry?"

I willed myself to stop coughing for a few seconds, feeling slightly burned by the remark, "Sure I do! It's just—" I barked out a nasty cough, clearing my throat roughly and feeling a scrape to my voice, "I just am, you know, sorry about that whole thing, it was wrong of me and I shouldn't have been quick to judge about you wanting to tag along with us but it just—" I caught my breath, glaring. "It wasn't right to just leave your wife and—"

**You are beating a dead horse, Harry.**

I never wanted to punch somebody so badly in my life in the same way Hermione slapped Draco. I said, angrily, "No, I'm not!"

**But you are. I think Remus Lupin gets what you're trying to say, do you not?**

Remus' face fell and turned the colour of milk in quick succession, stumbling back towards a wall, voice wavering into a stutter as he spoke. "Y-yes. Are we not . . . alone?"

"No," I said unhappily. "We are not alone. We haven't been alone since—"

I stopped. _How have I not thought about this?_

" _When_ exactly are we?"

**Sorry, but I have zero clue. I admit it's hard to place where to start the story when the original plot is, for the lack of better words, well** — **lacking. I believe two days have passed now. How about this? For the sake of continuity and clarity, it is now a Wednesday. We started the story on a Monday.**

"What day is it for you?"

There was silence for a minute.

**May fourth, two-thousand twenty. It's Monday.**

Standing there slack-jawed for a moment from the shock at the sheer time difference, I forcefully asked: "And when was" —gesturing with my arms wide in a dizzying motion as if Apparating—" _this_ mess written?"

**Sometime between two-thousand six and seven.**

"Oh," I said, dumbly. "So why did you write this?"

**Boredom from being shuttered in the coronavirus pandemic.**

". . . Oh."

I stared at Remus, completely flummoxed—he seemed to be looking in a right state. I took comfort in not being alone in my discomfort. "What?" I heard Remus utter in a weak hushed tone, voice hoarse, and by the look on his face, probably the most horrified I've ever seen him. Maybe he might need a cuppa. Hell, maybe what we _all_ need in the end is a good cup of tea. Do people put Firewhiskey in their tea?

**Never you both mind. Any plans?**

I blinked, shaking off the chill of fear from words that I did not understand, other than it sounding like downright nasty stuff. 'Pan-demic'. 'Co-ro-na . . . vi-rus.' I thought of the words a few more times, trying to make sense of it. Nothing came to mind, except Aunt Petunia's rants at some point in time—something about the cold (or what is it flu?) virus if my cousin stood out in the rain too long (or probably drown if he looked up for too long); I often wondered what poor animal out there was of closest relation to Dudley. 'Corona' reminds me of a song I may have heard on the telly or radio at some point. Maybe I'm thinking of the wrong thing. Maybe I'm just wondering in circles about a bunch of nothing. But it isn't nothing—I just haven't the slightest clue. At this rate, I'd rather have a go at one of Snape's riddles.

"Right. Remus," I started, seeing Remus flinch slightly at the attention—his mind must have wandered off elsewhere, too—but seemed to have regained his composure in short order. I suggested: "How about we go see Draco Malfoy first? With enough luck, we might even find Snape and Dumbledore around here somewhere!"

Remus said in an amused tone, "Isn't Draco Malfoy hanging around with that girl?"

"Well, yeah, but—"

"So, where is he now?" asked Remus.

'Well, my bad then for coming with an idea!' I wanted to say, but I couldn't bring myself to do so.

I closed my eyes, hand over my face to pinch the bridge of my nose as I realised my mistake, letting out a defeated sigh. "He's with . . . her. For band practice."

"Band practice?" asked Remus curiously.

"Don't ask," I replied, annoyed with just standing here in the middle of the corridor. "Let's just go."

"Go where?" an instantly recognisable voice echoed from somewhere behind me. "The Headmaster's office?"

Remus cordially said, "We don't know yet, Severus. We haven't exactly a clue as to what we should do with this free time."

Snape sniffed haughtily. "Quite. So—"

"MY PACKAGE!"

It happened so fast: a flock of five owls screech their arrival as they dived towards us—Snape happened to be in the way of the medium-sized wooden chest wrapped haphazardly with different ropes that dangled from their talons; his eyes glimmered angrily, glowering at me for yelling and interrupting whatever he had to say—bumping said chest hard onto Snape's back after the ropes magically loosened in close proximity to the receiver, the sound of hollow, heavy-sounding clattering from within. His eyes nearly bulged out of their sockets from the sudden impact, stumbling forward and losing his balance as I panicked, diving aside instinctively to avoid getting crushed by both chest and a mortified, livid Potions Master. Remus, paling, got a very unwanted armful of Snape and, both looking repulsed and horrified, couldn't get away from each other fast enough.

Snape subsequently hit his ankle on the chest at his hasty attempt to back away, tripping as a loose, frayed thread on his robes caught on the chest's clasp as soon as he took a step forward, face-planting the floor, nose-first.

From the ground, I helplessly watched in horror as Snape's left eye twitched convulsively, scrambling back up in a spider-like scuttle movement.

Snape blew up, throwing an accusatory, wild-eyed glare in my direction, gesturing with his hands the chest that lay on the floor beside his feet. "WHAT IN THE BLOODY BLAZES WAS THAT?"

I swallowed. "My packa—"

"YOU"—Snape threw his arms forward, lunging at me with an ugly, red tinge colouring his cheeks as he forcefully grabbed me by the arms, shaking me as if that would make me any saner with that absolutely mental gleam in his eyes, twitching—"ALREADY SAID THAT, YOU IDIOT!"

**I'm bored—time's up.**

"WHAT?" screamed Snape as he spun on his heel after dropping me unceremoniously back to the ground, raising his arms beseechingly to the empty ceiling. "WE HAVEN'T EVEN COME UP WITH A PLAN YET!"

"WILL YOU JUST SHUT UP, SNAPE!" I yelled, my frustration rising. "You weren't even here for—"

"It's called 'spying', you ungrateful brat!" Snape snarled in a swift jerk of his greasy-haired head to face me. All his blustering gave me an idea; quickly, I got to my feet, blurting out, "WAIT, THAT'S IT! You and Remus can spy on her!"

Snape looked sick. "Do you not realise how that could come across, or are you just that oblivious?"

"Err," I said rather stupidly— _I'll kick myself for it later_ —"the latter? Besides," I began to counter, "didn't you do just that for the past seven years?"

"That's beside the point!" he snapped back, gritting his crooked teeth. "It's not as if I'll be reporting back to Dumbledore on the inane activities of a volatile teenage girl, and for what purpose? To prevent a half-arsed suicide attempt? I'll be candid with you, Potter: I don't care what she gets up to, so long as she stops sexually harassing anything that walks and what are you doing _now_ , Potter?" Snape said with exasperation as I rummaged through the stuff in Mr Weasley's chest, not really paying much attention.

"Ah-ha!" I grinned triumphantly, holding up what caught my eye. "A video camera!"

"A _what_?" asked Remus, face contorted in confusion.

"A vee-dee-oh cah-me-ra," I supplied enthusiastically. "It's an electronic thing used for taking a recording of people doing things—you could use this to gather evidence of any wrong-doing and have her expelled from Hogwarts!"

Snape looked to be deep in thought, seeming to have some horrifying epiphany as he grinned viciously. I almost feel sorry for the 'vampire' lady.

"Tell me how this," Snape said with an all-too-happy sadistic glee in his voice, "video camera works."

* * *

I have no idea what we're doing. All I know is that we sound like a fusion between riled-up mandrakes that took one too many Cruciatus Curses in the last half-hour and a much younger Fred and George marching and banging away at Mum's pots and pans raucously around the house.

At least Harry and Malfoy are elsewhere and unable to hear Hermione and I's awful attempts at making music.

_That came out slightly wrong._

I was surprised to see Hagrid here with us. The leather-clad bird decided earlier to make us write melancholy lyrically-challenged songs before we warmed up and started— _tried_ —playing a song I never heard in my life. I was feeling too miffed to get remotely turned on by the skimpy outfit that deliberately showed off her bosom. It's better that way. Hermione at least didn't catch me looking—not like I had to try hard to sneak a peek. "You're pathetic, Ron," she hissed into my left ear as that cunt— _yeah, try scolding me for that, Hermione!_ —sang hideously out-of-tune, Hermione feigning a bass riff with a quick shift of her left fingers, shadow-strumming with her right hand. I got startled, dropping a drumstick near the end of a god-awful attempt at a drum fill. _At least it's almost over and I can trans-fucking-figure my hair back to normal._

Just as the 'song' seemed to reach its conclusion, Ebony started to cry, sobbing like it was the performance of her life. Or somebody's funeral. Maybe she ran out of eyeliner. Fuck it. I don't care. I felt extremely uncomfortable and out-of-place.

" _Ebony! Are you OK?"_ asked Hermione . . . strangely.

" _What the fuck do you think?"_ Ebony asked, sounding similar to one of Harry's infamous outbursts—minus the cursing.

I made a concerted effort not to lose my shit and laugh my arse off. I imagined I looked like I had a bad case of indigestion. I still thought I was doing a damn good job at this, Hermione's glare notwithstanding. I rolled my eyes and eased some of the tension in my chest, knowing that at least Hermione was here to, I don't know, suffer with me.

Then that bird just _had_ to keep talking.

" _Well, Voldemort came and the fucking bastard told me to fucking kill Harry! But I don't want to kill him, because, he's really nice, even if he did go out with Draco"_ —I hacked out a loud cough like I had Neville's toad down my throat to cover up a wheezing snort of laughter; I felt my sides giving up already—" _But if I don't kill Harry, then Voldemort,"_ she paused dramatically for maximum effect, " _will fucking kill Draco!"_

And she got right back to sobbing again. Merlin, this is pathetic. I'd rather be read— No, thunked repeatedly in the head by Hermione's heavily-annotated version of _Hogwarts: A History_ to death than listen to a second longer to this rubbish.

All of a sudden, a wall appeared in the middle of the room—Malfoy jumped out from it.

_Merlin give me strength_ , I pleaded internally with desperation, feeling the tears fill the corners of my eyes as I strained back my urge to crack up—Hermione elbowed my hip hard, whispering urgently " _Ron!_ " as she nodded sharply towards the door, mouthing, " _We need to go_ —now!"

" _Why didn't you fucking tell me!"_ Malfoy shouted as we stealthily made our way out. " _How could you— you— you fucking poser Muggle bitch!"_

They both wailed like they were in competition with Moaning Myrtle for 'Most Despairing Cry Uttered By A Teenage Tragedy (That Does Not Include Ron's Mate Harry Because He Never Cries For Some Reason)', hosted by a greasy, creepy teenage Severus Snape. 'And now we have my cowardly future godson in a tie with the badly-dressed aspiring dominatrix,' he would say in a hiss as the hair curtained the sides of his ugly-arse face, 'lest Myrtle realise again she's a ghost nobody in their right mind likes.' Myrtle would start crying that piercing cry and shatter everybody's ears on stage right off. Probably would kill Snape on centre-stage because he can't stand the cries of children. Probably would kill Malfoy because he'd rather kill himself than lose any contest to a half-blood. Ebony and Myrtle would be in a perpetual crying match that would shatter the world's ears, the heavens, and with that, everyone's taste in music.

On second thought—best not jinx it.

And as if right on cue, Malfoy ran out, crying hysterically. Hermione and I stared, gaping at each other, rooted to the spot near the door. _FUCK!_

We ended up being held against our will, and began playing the same rubbish again. _Damnit, Harry! Where_ are _you? You better not be out there having a cuppa with the Headmaster!_

* * *

"I think it's best not to interfere too much, Harry," said Dumbledore sagely as he refilled our cups with more tea.

They have cooled down sitting out with barely any sips taken as Remus, Snape and I sat stiffly in separate conjured chairs in front of his desk. I sat in between them apprehensively, handling the saucer and teacup handle with repetitive rubbing motions between my fingers. Making an effort to be polite despite internally—and vehemently—disagreeing with Dumbledore, I firmly grasped the end of the dainty plate, lifting the piping-hot cup tentatively to my lips to soothe my nerves. _There is no milk and sugar in this._

I drank it anyway.

"Headmaster," I heard Snape say as I mock-casually sipped some tea, "I insist we use the recording device as a means to an end, invasion of privacy notwithstanding. After the world endured your convoluted machinations as you were oft to do, I can't help but call into question this sudden change of heart. Surely you don't think that we should just stand aside like helpless by-standers as we prostrate ourselves to that uncouth prima donna gallivanting around the castle?"

"She's a terror," commented Remus, "and I think we should do something about this if we have the means to do so! Based on the rules and bylaws from the last time I taught here—and I _do_ hope there haven't been any significant changes made by the Board of Governors since then—Ebony Darkness—" I corrected Remus, dully muttering "Dark'ness" as I downed the last of the bitter tea, placing the cup on the plate that I held on my left. Snape jerked his head to look to his right, scowling at me with narrowed, black eyes. The intimidation tactic has long been ineffective, except for earlier after Snape landed his prominent nose on the floor; it's slightly crooked now. I subtly suppressed a fit of unfitting laughter that threatened to make its way out of my mouth by tightening my lips first, then coughed feebly into the palm of my right hand. Snape's glare intensified, but Remus and Dumbledore didn't seem to notice—or care. Remus only blinked, shifting his eyes warily in acknowledgement of my interruption. ". . . Dark' _ness_ ," he resumed slowly, "Dementia Raven Way meets grounds for expulsion from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry." Remus leaned forward in his chair, staring daggers and appearing very serious. "Is this no longer the case, Albus?"

Albus blinked, taking a small sip of tea before putting down the saucer and cup down steadily onto the desk, slowly replying, "Not exactly, Remus."

"And why is that?" a hint of irritation escaped from Remus as he spoke. "Please, help us understand. The last thing I would want on my conscience is having not gotten rid of the student that is actively preying and violating others as we speak!"

I stayed silent at that, wishing I had more tea to drink to hide whatever face I was making at the moment, but Snape noticed it immediately—he paled, looking sick. He seemed to be doing that a lot nowadays. "When?" asked Snape point-blank.

"Not yet," I reluctantly said, my eyes narrowing at the tea leaves settled at the bottom of my cup. "Today."

Snape rolled his eyes, giving an insufferable sigh. I guess I would be tired of me, too, after being followed around for seven years and deemed 'The Chosen One' by the wizarding public at large. _Oh god, Snape probably heard about the Gringotts dragon, too. I sound like a right twat—like Ebony. Or Lockhart. Now_ I _feel sick._ "A seer now, are you?"

"No!" I growled, trying to will that git to understand as I set the saucer on to my lap. "What I mean is, the author told me—"

"The author," uttered Snape flatly with a disbelieving and sneering inflexion in his voice, "told you."

"Yes," I asserted behind gritted teeth.

"If that's the case," Snape said with his crooked, hooked nose in the air, "I'd like to speak to the author."

**Here I am.**

Snape darted his head to the ceiling and bolted from his chair simultaneously, wand out so fast as if it came from thin air, his pupils seeming to eerily disappear behind the most fathomless and maddest pair of black eyes I've ever seen and, losing all his composure for the second time today, howled out threateningly, yet in an almost comically exasperated tone: "WHO _ARE_ YOU?"

**The author. You said, 'I'd like to speak to the author.' So, here I am. I believe you have a question for me.**

". . . Fine," Snape spat out like my cousin would if he didn't get what he wanted. This thought nearly made me laugh, so I bit my tongue, hard. _It may bleed, but I'd rather have it that way than burst out laughing and have myself throttled to a third death_. "Is Harry Potter in danger?"

**When isn't he? Based on recent events that the former Hogwarts Headmaster orchestrated to ensure Harry Potter's win against the Dark Lord Voldemort, I'd say he's got a lifetime of danger ahead of him. I thought that was obvious. Try asking a different question.**

Snape's left eyelid was twitching again. "Is Harry Potter in danger of being violated today?"

**Yes.**

"When?" asked Snape impatiently.

**Later today during . . . 'Hair of Magical Magic Creatures' class. After you get shot.**

"Why would we need vaccinations?" asked Remus, just as confused as Snape.

**By 'shot', I mean bullets shot from a gun.**

"WHAT?" I shot up from my seat—I felt something sliding off my lap, the crack of the forgotten ceramic saucer and teacup shattering on the floor—knocking the chair back onto the chest full of electronics behind it. Couldn't the author have mentioned this earlier? _Sod it—fuck my second life! I swear I'm about a tad sick and tired of all this._ "BUT WHY?"

**Because they get caught spying on her. It's part of the plot.**

"Then make it NOT part of the plot!" I demanded furiously, wanting so badly for the author to see reason.

**I can't control it. Aren't you supposed to come up with a plan to stop the bad fanfiction by calling out for help on the Internet?**

"Yes! But we only got as far as making our aliases—I still haven't gotten on the Internet to pull off the plan."

"What plan?" asked Snape and Remus.

"To post our story on a fanfiction website so that we could get ideas to pull us out," I explained, but came to a stop, thinking. "Although, now that I think about it . . . why would we need different aliases? Can't Ron and Hermione just share mine?"

**Didn't think about that. I don't see why not, especially since you only have one computer in your possession.**

"Right then. Instead of going to the Weasleys' house, I also don't see why I can't just use the Room of Requirement to produce a non-magical room so I can get the computer to work—"

"The Come and Go Room," interrupted Dumbledore, wiping his crescent-shaped spectacles with the end of his starry sky-blue sleeve, "is a highly magical place, Harry." Calmly placing them atop his nose, I noticed his eyes twinkling with approval. "I, myself, have never found it necessary to turn into an ordinary room devoid of most magics, but it can't hurt to try."

"Oh!" I said, surprised. "Erm, well— I guess I better go do that now." Then as I cast the levitation spell upon the chest before heading out of the office, I realised I nearly forgot Ron and Hermione's early morning band practice with vampire tart. I vaguely recall that at some point Hagrid was mentioned, but I can't be bothered to remember all the details that harpy yammers out. I have got to get them out of that predicament. "Wait, Professor Dumbledore, I forgot about—"

"Do not worry about that, Harry," said Dumbledore cheerfully, smiling as he came to his feet and strode across the office to see me off, putting a comforting not-cursed wrinkly hand upon my shoulder. "I have some business to take care of, myself," he said with a wink. "Students are, after all, not the only ones affected by that ill-intentioned young lady."

"What'd the plot make you do, sir?" I asked, my curiosity getting the best of me.

"Well." Dumbledore paused for a few seconds, the twinkle in his eyes—gone. "Let's just leave it at a non-existent headache and a few choice foul words, shall we? And Harry—" he took his hand away to open the door, his eyes bright with a mischievous glint that made him look ages younger, promising nothing but bad news for Ebony; I couldn't help but grin. "Bring your father's cloak."

* * *

" _NO!"_

I stood hidden in plain sight with the Cloak on beside an oddly-placed wall in the middle of the make-shift band practice room after Dumbledore's offbeat act, miraculously (or not—she does seem to be about as smart as my dear cousin Diddykins) leading her to believe that Malfoy killed himself by cutting his wrists. Torn between feeling scared out of my mind at the peculiar change in Professor Dumbledore's ever-present wise, amiable demeanour and breaking into hysterics, I settled for watching what was left of the surreal scene. Ebony looked like she saw a ghost (or whatever terrified somebody like her—the colour pink is likely). I imagine the reason the Hogwarts ghosts by and large stayed far away from us now is to avoid any demeaning involvement in this contrived plot. I, for one, think they deserve peace in death.

Someone is not getting invited to any Deathday parties any time soon. I shuddered involuntarily, rotting fish and the excruciating scratching of strings coming back to me just as Hermione lamely had a go at comforting Ebony—she told Hermione to fuck off and lurched out the door in an unsteady, theatrical run, leaving a trail of red ("Oh, for fuck's sake, she's crying blood again!" I heard Ron say in a poorly contained whisper) spattering at her heels.

For added effect—or probably his own enjoyment—Dumbledore raced after her at full pelt, the celestial blue robes swaying with a graceful over-dramatic flare behind him, each tiny gold star twinkling as brightly as his eyes. As he vanished out of sight, I caught the faint voice of the Headmaster calling out " _Ebony!_ " in a bellow echoing through the halls until it, too, faded into the distance.

The coast clear, I revealed myself to Ron and Hermione. Ron seemed to be in good spirits—he collapsed to the ground with tears in his eyes, gasping for air and howling with resounding laughter as he clutched his sides, hacking a dying old man's cough in between a good chortle before bursting into another, stuck in a loop—in comparison to Hermione, who stood still as if Petrified, staring and gaping like a fish at the far distance outside the door. I decided to call for their attention before they started asking too many questions.

"Oi—we need to get going to the Room of Requirement!"

Hermione broke out of her dumbstruck trance, cocking her head at me. "Why?"

"Dumbledore bought us time, that's why!" I said, trying to get her to understand quicker. "I got a chestful of electronics stuff from Mr Weasley—we can set up the computer now!"

"What are we waiting for then!" said Ron impatiently, back to his senses faster than Hermione and beaming brightly as he strode towards us. "Let's go, Hermione—and _please_ ," said Ron as he strung her along by her sleeve, leading the way out, "don't go asking for more than we need to know! I mean, blimey, Harry—dunno what Dumbledore told you' he'd do, but what that mad bastard just did"—Ron grinned with great satisfaction as we sprinted through the hallways, ignoring the mixed looks of concern and disdain as we shoved our way through a crowd of students ("Sorry— excuse me, sorry! Oh—! Goodness, I'm so so—" said Hermione behind us before getting elbowed in the face and spitting out a curse I never thought she'd say in my second lifetime)—"was bloody brilliant!"

I allowed myself a victory whoop as we took off up the Grand Staircase, making our way to the seventh-floor corridor. Thankfully, almost no one got in the way after Hermione shrieked nasally, holding her right hand to her swollen, bloody nose, "GET OUTTA MY FACE, CREEVEY, I SWEAR I WILL TURN YOU INTO A FLY AND FEED YOU TO TREVOR IF YOU TAKE A PICTURE OF THIS, YOU INCONSIDERATE SON OF A—!" as I pushed past him and his stupid camera, thinking of the only place it truly belonged.

_I shouldn't be having such mean thoughts,_ I thought fleetingly as we jumped one of the trick steps, _considering he's supposed to be dead..._

_Oh well,_ I internally shrugged with indifference as we legged it up the last three flights of steps, feeling the uneasiness of some of the students as they stuck themselves to the sides of the stairs and Hermione's piercing stare daring them to say something.

_He's not dead now,_ I thought gladly with a smile as we quickly paced back and forth for what we needed, and entered the Room of Requirement.


	6. Severus Snape and The Lost Plot of Higher Significance (or Ebony Raven Way and The Werewolf Clook)

I sat with the werewolf in the Headmaster's Office, watching Albus leave with Potter as if they were old companions conspiring once again in some childish prank that needed nobody else's prying ears. "You disgust me," Albus said to me once long ago upon that hill as I debased myself on my knees. How relevant that those three words echo still in the deepest caverns of my subconscious.

They both disgust me. The seriousness of the situation seemed to be secondary to whatever plan they hatched for their own personal satisfaction. Not that I would not do the same to get back at the student who keeps sexually harassing anybody and everybody that breathes as she continues to walk around the castle as if she rules the place. Worse yet, Potter seems to not have caught on to _my_ plan to reveal to the Board of Governors what a plague upon Britain that teenage girl really is! All hail the Saviour of the Wizarding World in all his youthful neverending glory and mercy, and his godly intuition and omniscience that needs no help from us mere adult mortals. Arrogant, stubborn, over-emotional piece of work. You have truly outdone yourself, Albus. Here is to you, Lily—seeing your son as he truly is, both in death and in this sick joke that is the next life. Perhaps this is me getting my just desserts. That or Potter got a sense of humour somewhere along the way while playing the hero all these years. I think of his temper and his indignation at the unfairness of the world. How he wanted to apply himself to be an Auror and keep catching—and fighting off—those pesky run-away Death Eaters for the rest of his life based on the words of a fellow Death Eater in the guise of a fearsome, mad Auror locked up in his own trunk.

What a bloody waste.

"Deep in thought, Severus?" said the werewolf, probably in an attempt to make conversation as we continued to sit and stare stupidly at the closed door.

"Does it concern you?" I asked him back. "No. No, it does not."

"I see."

Yet he does not. Two formerly dead men brought back to life, sitting here, doing nothing while the Chosen One goes off on another whimsical adventure with an old man who asked for death, got it, comes back, and spends time with a boy he trained to die. The Boy Who Died. That's what he is now. Yet he walks around like Death was but one in his repertoire of great misadventures, basilisks be damned. No, Potter is too good to die by basilisk. Too good to die by a measly Killing Curse. No, he had—has—to die by the hand of Death, at a time of his choosing. To think that a children's fairy tale would determine the Fate of the Wizarding World. That the Great Albus Dumbledore went along with it, putting all his hopes in a handbasket as Little Red ran willingly not into dear old granny's house for a nasty surprise, but straight into the wolf's den. _How droll_ , I sighed.

. . . It was more like Little Red went to granny's house, and there was no wolf. Granny—grandpa—instead told the boy, "Thanks for the medicine, Little Red, but I choose to die. And for the big bad wolf to go away, you must, too." And Little Red, with a sad smile, said, "I know," leaving the old, sickly sod to die as he left me after my death to venture into a den dark as the abyss, home to an insatiable wolf that had not a merciful bone in his amalgamated body. A wolf that played with the cadavers with torture curses and the like from the darkest of Dark Arts, with an innumerable pack of wolves that followed his sadistic lead with a sick reverence rivalling the worst of Muggle cult worshippers. And Potter went in.

And in macabre curiosity, I listened. And I watched the results of all my efforts come to an end as Lily's eyes—scared, resolved, green, bright bottle-green behind dirty glasses—shut one last time . . . .

"You are sick."

At Lupin's half-worried, unhelpful comment that lacked—and yet had—insight, I said, dryly: "You could say that."

Lupin had the gall to give me a pitying smile. Of course. "It does one no good to think of what could have been."

"I'd like to think of a time where you would have no need to talk about that of which does not concern you," I answered smoothly.

"Right," the werewolf answered like an after-thought. "Well then." He stood to leave, his hands trying to smooth out the hopeless wrinkles in the shabby robes before stepping forward. "Shall we go forward with the plan that we discussed earlier?"

"Seeing as the Saviour is too busy entertaining another one of the Headmaster's plans, I don't see why not," I replied as I got up, making my way ahead of the werewolf out the door.

"Severus," I heard behind me, "your nose—"

"Yes?" I said, irritated, as I turned fast to face him. _Go on then, Lupin. Say it. I dare you to._ The Boy Hero was dying to say something, too. He may not be an open book anymore, but Potter seemed to have found something about my face absolutely hilarious; I could feel it. I wanted to throttle him, tell him, "Go on then, Potter—laugh! Laugh like they once did!" To my disappointment, he did not. ("It's— nothing," I heard a voice mutter as I followed their way outside the office and past the gargoyle statue.) It's worse now. Potter left without giving thought to two men he thought dead, grinning that stupid grin as he talked without a care in the world, green eyes lively with admiration towards an old fool that knowingly brought him to his death. Potter looked grateful even. If I had known Harry Potter would be grateful for an early death, I would have gladly given it sooner if it would have spared Lily all those years ago. It could have spared her. All the Dark Lord had to do was kill the boy, spare Lily. Was that so bloody difficult? I should have done it myself! Why did I not do it myself? I wouldn't have had to play double-agent like some sad sod in one of those Muggle spy movies, only to die for a bloody angsty teenager who realised my worth too late.

How dare Potter not see how important my mission was! Ungrateful! ("There is no need to call me 'sir', Professor," said the brat after he humiliated me in front of the entire Defence classroom.) Unbalanced! (An early edition of _The Daily Prophet,_ before that careless editor was subsequently executed to be replaced with somebody more Dark Lord-friendly, being haphazardly passed around in the Great Hall for lunch showed Gringotts in shambles, goblins panicking in an eternal loop as a pale dragon took to the skies—and if one looked close enough, who else but Potter at the helm with his two equally suicidal friends hanging on to the blind beast's scaly back—the front page screaming: "UNDESIRABLE NO. 1 BREAKS INTO GRINGOTTS! ESCAPES WITH ACCOMPLICES!" Somewhere in the article the heist was called, "the heist of the millennium." The Carrow siblings had a hard time getting a hold of the paper, as it kept getting mysteriously duplicated—somewhere along the way it had acquired a mild undetectable Gemini Charm.) Untalented! ("That's my nickname," he said after a pause at my catching him in the act of trying to outwit me after attacking Draco with _my_ _spell_ without having a clue what it did. 'Roonil Wazlib' his nickname, indeed! Maybe the brat needed to be hit with the Cruciatus—" _No!" I diverted a Death Eater’s sadistic fixation onto what the Dark Lord originally commanded as Potter's agonised screams rung into the spring dusk_ —if it means not casting spells he has no understanding of! The idiot! The dunderhead! HOW—" _Fight back, you coward!" he yelled with fury as he chased us down_ —DARE—" _I AM NOT," I screamed back as the hut enveloped in a fiery inferno blazed behind me, my wand drawn tightly in my trembling grasp, infuriated by the nerve of this boy that knows nothing, NOTHING, about me! "A COWARD!"_ —HE! _The crestfallen, shocked face upon learning the truth, as if he couldn't believe himself . . . ._ )

UNCARING! (THROW YOUR LIFE AWAY— _he fell with an anticlimactic thud onto the forest floor—_ WHY DON'T YOU!) UNFAIR! ("Always," she said to him! WHY DID SHE HAVE TO—)

"Here."

I felt a broom being thrust into the palm of my right hand. Feeling thrown off-guard, I hissed at Lupin, "What is—"

"The plan, Severus?" he said in a tired voice, looking to the sky for strength as if he wanted to be anywhere but here as he held a used broom with both hands. He looked at me with hard eyes and heaved a despairing, over-dramatic sigh that was most unbecoming of him. "If this is too much for your ego to handle because Harry happened to come up with a plan first—"

"Don't," I said shortly, my patience strained to its limit.

"You know—"

Surprisingly, the werewolf paused to think, unlike two other dead men I once had the displeasure of knowing. "You're right. I have no time for this. We _,_ " said Lupin with strong emphasis, eyes searching for understanding, "have no time for this."

"I have no idea what you're going on about, Lupin," I said with a smile that I have absolutely no intention of meaning well. "Let us get that unstable girl expelled, shall we?" I turned to leave the broom closet near the Quidditch field, which is where we just happened to be at after the unyielding barrage, the tempest, of wounding thoughts.

"Wait—"

"Wait," I shifted my face slightly to show just how much attention I'd care to spare him as I continued making my way back to the castle, "for what?"

"You are impossible, Snape, you know that?"

I stopped to really look at Lupin dead in the eye beside me, startled, and said to him with utmost sincerity, gravely: "I _do_ the impossible."

To my great satisfaction, he said nothing else as we strode back inside, past those great Hogwarts doors, to begin our search for the girl's room. No one will know that I felt like jumping for joy as the werewolf held his tongue for about a good thirty minutes. Afterwards, our conversation was strictly the plan, and the plan alone. We found her room easily. As if the bloody teardrop tracks leading to the door weren't obvious enough, the howling and crying and whining coming from the room was very telling. I can only hope the morose ghost girl that haunts one of the girl's bathrooms does not find the oddly-dressed teenager that wallows in misery a suitable companion.

After a few preparations and standing back outside with brooms on hand—"No, Severus, you can't fly unaided for this, unless you want the slightest distraction sending you falling a few hundred feet down," the werewolf said; I reluctantly agreed with his logic—we mounted and set out towards the window of the girl's room. Before approaching closer, Lupin spoke with an uncharacteristically hard cadence to his voice with familiar words. "Severus," Lupin nodded towards the open window as he began to chew on the latest secret Weasley invention: some stupid name for a gum that makes you invisible for an estimated thirty minutes, maybe more or less. I wanted to ask why he does not simply Disillusion himself like any other wizard. I didn't bother. "If you are prepared."

I grinned a most menacing grin, putting him slightly off-kilter for my own entertainment, and because those blasted words said and held too much meaning to my life thus far. I'm always prepared, I wanted to say, but that would be a bloody lie. On my second chance at life, I finally felt alive.

"I," I said with as much pride and meaning and purpose into my voice, quiet and promising vengeance to those that have dared wrong me greatly in my last life, "am a spy."

Yet just like my last life, it turned into a hellish circus with no end in sight with the only hope of saving us all from this fever dream of a plot resting on the shoulders of one 17-year old saviour. Again.

* * *

Severus Snape is an impossibly difficult man to talk to, let alone get along with. I can't help but wonder if he ever had any real friends.

I have not the slightest clue what goes on in that brain of his. Perhaps Sirius was right; Severus is a madman. He tends to have these times where he takes on an almost far-away look. Not ditzy or dreamy like one former student, Luna Lovegood. Just very thoughtful in a most selfish sort of way, like he is contemplating the meaning of life or some potions theory that I have little interest in. Or maybe he is giving a great deal of thought on how to lash us all into submission with his sharp tongue that could gut out your soul. And if he looks at you, it feels like he is boring, drilling, penetrating, dissecting every bit of what makes you what you are. You can't help but feel almost dirty afterwards. It seems Severus cares not for the privacy of others if it achieves his means to an end. I've heard he is an excellent Legilimens, but a real master at Occlumency. Makes sense: of course Severus would like to keep all important information all to himself with no one but Albus Dumbledore to be allowed to make heads or tails out of it.

"Lupin," hissed Severus, looking annoyed as his oily, lank black hair covered half his face, mouthing with condescending annunciation as if he were trying to teach the proper incantation to a spell, showing every crooked tooth. Poor ugly sod just never had it good, had he? "The video camera?"

"Oh!" I took it out of my robe's pockets, holding a miniature video camera on my left palm. I summoned my wand in my right hand, nonverbally returning the camera to normal size, and slipped my wand right back up my right sleeve into its holster. I made eye-contact with Severus, letting him know I'm ready whenever he is.

He gave a short nod, black robes fluttering lightly in the wind, and carefully flew closer to the window. I could hear the boom of Muggle rock music ringing from somewhere inside the room. Severus rolled his eyes and went flying closer when he suddenly stopped, and silently, quickly, made his way next to me and whispered as oily strands of stray hair fell forward on his face, "You keep masticating on a Weasley product that claims to make the user invisible, yet I still see you as clear as I can hear that bloody music. Why?"

I gave him a sheepish shrug, which made his nostrils flare, his glare worse. This was no time for banter or jokes or anything because this is Severus—formally 'Snivellus'—Snape, and he looks like he's ready to yank the camera from my hand any second now, itching to do it himself because Merlin knows only he can do everything right.

What a miserable man. Why did I bother?

" _Because I know why he is a miserable git, Remus, and I feel like I owe it to him_ — _to work with him and not give him a hard time with things, y'know? And if you can't understand that, well fine_ — _don't work with him. But please trust him again, Remus. I regret not trusting him sooner. I would like it if you tried on my behalf if I can't be there. It would mean a lot to me. Really. Just_ — _Please trust me on this, Remus, if you can't trust him."_

Oh Harry.

And just like that, taking advantage of my hesitation, Severus snatched the video camera from my hands, muttering to himself a string of very wholesome phrases and words that were surely in no way meant to be scathing, soul-crushing, destructive, and demeaning to a person's character as he deftly messed with some buttons and lifted the camera to his line of sight, moving around with consideration in carefully calculated movements on the used broom.

I kept chewing on the gum to soothe my nerves about spying on a teenage girl because sod it all, I'm supposed to try to trust this extremely complicated—and probably borderline insane—man for the sake of my deceased best friend's son who seems to actually give a damn for his well-being to some extent. And that is definitely more than can be said about James and Sirius' past actions at 17.

Lily, wherever you are, I hope you're watching.

* * *

" _Is that . . . a slab of steak?"_

" _She seems to be attempting to stab away at her chest with it."_

" _And here I am, once having had thought that you were not of sound mind."_

" _Hmm."_

" _What?"_

" _She got out of the bath and is putting on some black lace dress that does not abide by the school's dress code in the slightest. I believe she's now wearing a pair of racy high-heel shoes. Why she dresses like a Muggle woman in a red-light district is beyond me."_

" _And how would you know about—"_

" _EW, YOU FUCKING PERVS, STOP LOOKING AT ME NAKED! ARE YOU PEDOS OR WHAT!"_

" _Lupin, fly in, NOW!"_

" _Wait now, Severus, I don't think_ —"

" _I DON'T WANT YOU TO THINK, JUST BLOODY DO IT!"_

" _Severus, you're making a mistake! Snape! SNAPE! Put the broom down and CALM DOWN!"_

" _This dunderhead just covered herself in a towel while she wears a dress that breaks the school's dress code AND accused us of looking at her naked despite video AND audio evidence TO THE CONTRARY!"_

" _SOMETIMES IT IS NOT ABOUT BEING RIGHT, SEVERUS! Merlin, listen to yourself! And put the video camera down, you're scaring the girl!"_

" _HA! Scaring the girl? What in the bloody blazes is she going to do, pull out a_ —"

" _SEVERUS, LOOK OUT!"_

" _Abra Kedavra!"_

" _DAMN YOU, POTTER, THAT'S NOT EVEN A SPELL_ —"

" _FOR FUCK'S SAKE, SEVERUS, LISTEN TO ME!"_

" _NO! YOU LISTEN TO ME! I'VE HAD IT WITH THE LOT OF YOU, AND BLAST IT ALL, I WILL HAVE THE LAST WO_ —"

" _Albus? What are you—AHHH FUCK, SHE SHOT ME! SHE BLOODY SHOT ME! SEVERUS, DON'T DROP THAT_ —"

" _YOU INSOLENT_ —AH FUCK! _BITCH! CUNT! WHORE! FUCK! POTTER, STOP STANDING THERE AND DO SOMETHING! Oh bloody_ — _STOP SHOOTING, YOU IDIOT GIRL_ — _! Ah!"_

" _Ebony, it has been revealed that someone has_ — _NOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"_

" _Wha_ — _Remus? S— Snape? Why? Oh no, not again, just_ — _Don't die again, ohdamnit fuck, don't_ — _Please don't be dead again. C'mon, spells, spells—"_

" _I'll give you a spell, Potter . . ."_

" _What, Professor? What is it? Please hurry, you're bleeding a lot and ohmygod_ —"

" _Come closer."_

" _Yes? What is it?"_

" _Ef."_

" _Okay, okay, and?"_

" _. . . U."_

" _. . . I should have left you to die, you miserable git!"_

" _I told you he was not worth the time and effort, Harry . . ."_

" _Damn it, Remus! SOMEBODY TELL ME A SPELL_ _TO STOP THE BLOODY BLEEDING! PLEASE!"_

" _Harry, calm down. I got them. Harry_ — _It's okay. I got them."_

" _Oh god, they were dead again—"_

" _Harry. Harry_ — _Look at me, Harry! It's okay. I got them."_

" _Oh god, they are_ — _They— They are alive again . . . Oh fuck, why couldn't they leave it all well enough alone, oh god—"_

" _Potter, for Merlin's sake, stop—"_

" _HE'S NOT DEAD, YOU'RE NOT DEAD, NOTHING MAKES SENSE—"_

" _Stop your hysterics, Potter_ — _this is most unbecoming of you. Like it or not, we are bloody_ alive _, so excuse us for not—"_

" _Oi, ev'ry one! We need to talk!"_

" _. . . How in the nine hells did you get up here, Rubeus?"_

" _Oh_ , ' _ello there, Remus. Fancy seeing ya' here! Oh-ho, and Severus, too! Nice surprise! Ye' both got blood on yer robes . . . Ahem, nothing that a simple cleaning spell can't handle, eh . . . ? Err, well_ — _A good ol' broom that can support me weight, of course!"_

" _Of course . . . Oh, my sincerest apologies, Chosen One. I shall endeavour to watch my every word to appease your sensibilities."_

" _Severus, please_ —"

" _Is that not enough, Lupin? But of course, I shall also endeavour to appease both man and beast alike."_

" _SEVERUS SNAPE!"_

" _Yes, Headmaster?"_

" _Seeing as we are all gathered here under circumstances beyond our control and that we seem to have no limitations on how freely we can express ourselves, I feel like I can finally say what has been on my mind all these years. And no, Severus, you do not just disgust me, nor appall me. Do you wish to know how I really feel about you after all these years? After willingly withholding your best attributes, pushing boundaries, terrorising the student populace, and your failure to carry out an extremely vital part of the plan to defeat the worst Dark Lord of our age? A wand-shaped plan that got thrown around like what the Muggles like to call, 'a hot potato', amongst two students, one who just happened to very luckily be in the right place at the right time to put a stop to more bloodshed and violence? A plan which was bound to fall apart had Tom Riddle known more about wandlore? A plan, I admit, which would have doomed us all had you had ownership, like I originally intended, upon you being not killed, but simply disarmed? A plan where you would have had to give up said wand to a brave, young man in order to rid us of evil most vile? A plan which I entrusted to you, that I will never know if it would have been properly followed through based on all your past and current actions?"_

" _What?"_

" _. . . Disappointment. Yes, it all worked out in the end, hadn't it? Yet you would have rather died than do what was right. And so:_ _one Draco Malfoy disarmed me instead. You put all your hopes on having the right person disarm him afterwards, entirely based on a petty school rivalry working in your favour_ — _Shh, don't interrupt! Your denial is unnecessary, Severus. I can now say with absolute certainty, Severus Snape, in the one-hundred and fifteen years I've been alive_ — _bar our dear former Minister for Magic, Cornelius Fudge, who lost all his good senses out of fear_ — _you are the most selfish, arrogant man_ _I have ever had the displeasure to work with. Oh, and if I may say so on behalf of everyone else, us speaking freely and all . . ."_

" _Yes?"_

" _Go fuck yourself."_

* * *

It's official: The wizard who defeated Grindelwald, master of the Elder Wand, Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, has directly told me to go fuck myself. I am tempted to ask, 'How would you like me to go about it, oh Great Albus Dumbledore? Your fascination with wands is well-known; I am sure you have perfectly valid suggestions. However, I have a different proposition: You can take the so-called Deathstick and shove it right up your hairy arse.' I imagine that is not a novel concept for him, so I held my tongue and smiled. He is not the first to show enmity towards me. I will walk away from this disastrous plot unscathed with my head held high, saying—

" _This cannot be. There must be other factors."_

I froze, realising that one: I did not mean to say anything out loud for these dunderheads to hear. And two: Those words were nowhere close to where my train of thought was leading up to prior to my mouth regurgitating that nonsense, unless it had something to do with the background noise that was Hagrid and—

" _YOU DON'T HAVE ANY!"_ the aspiring harlot shrieked into my ear as Lupin held up the pitiful remnants of our only chance to get her expelled, stupidly saying, " _The lens may be ruined but the tape is still there!"_ then proceeded to rub his bloody hands together on his— Is that a Scottish werewolf claw?

" _Why are you doing this?"_ the werewolf messing with a volatile potions ingredient asked Hagrid.

" _BECAUSE . . . BECAUSE . . ."_

Realising this is my cue to tune the rest of this out, I got up to leave as the off-key shrill of what passed for singing started.

"Snape, wait!" A tug on my sleeve. _Of course. Why should I leave when the party is just getting started?_

"Potter, what do you think you're doing?"

The brat had the nerve to glower at me for leaving a crime scene. "You can't just leave the rest of us here to listen to"—Potter pointed at the half-giant waving his wand around while reciting violent and vulgar poetry in a discordant yell—"that!"

"I owe them nothing."

"Please?"

"No," I hissed. "Now if you'll excuse me."

"No!" Potter pulled at the hem of my sleeve harder, whispering fiercely as I tried my hardest to stare him down into flames. It didn't work. Fucking perfect. Just what I needed. "You get back here! You can't—"

Potter couldn't finish his sentence. The werewolf seemed to have handled the claw too roughly, setting off an Erumpent Horn-like effect in an incandescent, fiery show of fireworks, bright colours and heat, so much heat. The sound popped my eardrums as I was blasted back forcefully, painfully, with an unconscious Potter on top of me, eyelids shut. He was alive, breathing, based on the slight, yet slow movement of his chest in the midst of the grey-reddish dusty gloom. My eyes burned from the biting ashen substance permeating the air. Soon, we will be engulfed in flames as the highly-flammable and explosive particles set off again if somebody moves too much in here. My thoughts raced for a solution, but I struggled to think; a sharp pain shot up my back as I tried to sit up. Potter rolled onto my legs, groaning and tentatively, lethargically, tried to rub his head, not noticing that the stray ends of his former mohawk were now singed and frizzled, bringing his hair back to the bird's nest mess it once was. His ghastly Muggle clothes were very much ruined. I unclasped my cloak and lay it on top of him for as soon as Potter realises he isn't decent, he'd throw a fit, if he still had the energy to do so. Energy that need not be expended if we're to get out of here alive.

Despite my blurred vision from the irritating, hot dust, I successfully spotted other bodies lying around the destruction. Miss Ebony, to my shameless relief, seemed to lay the stillest among them. Her skin had a black, tarry complexion now, completely charred, her ridiculous dark hair and laced black dress in flames.

Good riddance. The plot is dead.

And to my horror, so was my wand, splintered beyond repair.

Wandless magic it is, then.

With all the effort I could muster, my right hand betraying me as tremors ran throughout my body, I tried levitating Potter off me, black splotches darkening my vision with every attempt, feeling light-headed and the rush of blood and adrenaline leaving my head. There was a slight shift. Then a lifted arm. It fell.

Nothing.

I wearily got up, stumbling like a bloody newborn fawn as Potter's body limply rolled off my legs, shuffling, getting my hair out of my face so I could better see where Potter lay. I positioned myself carefully to do the most minimal amount of additional stress upon my spine, and lifted him, cloak and all, limp as a flobberworm in my arms as I walked out of the rubble with utmost caution, step by step, until I reached the shattered door, barely hanging onto its last hinge. I forcefully kicked it off, the hard, wooden door landing on the stone floor with a loud thud. I stepped over it, and disregarding the annoying limp of my right leg, I headed off to the Infirmary. It was a good thing Poppy was not seen as an important enough plot device in the late teenager's story. She should be—

"Snape?"

I had to turn. My concussed head just _had_ to turn towards the dreadfully familiar voice.

Fucking brilliant.

"'Evening, Black."

And everything fell into darkness like once upon a time—no green eyes to make me glad to meet my end.

...

...

...

...

...

* * *

**Author's Note: ~~This is in no way the end for Ebony. There are mysterious forces at play. Imagine for a moment what it would have been like if "My Immortal" was less about the Sue, less about suicidal ideations, yet more about what death truly means for us all as individuals. I'd like to play with that theme.~~**

~~**I will self-insert in here as an inanimate object of your choice for a character to carry around if I get at least 10 "god reviuws", but please don't make me, say, Hermione's tampon (I'd do that for 100 legitimate reviews).** ~~

~~**As for our heroes, they have been given temporary free reign. Harry and company are still trying to get out of an awful piece of fanfiction. So do help me get them out. After all, those pesky Death Eaters and their Dark Lord haven't disappeared into thin air.** ~~

**I present to you a preview of the next chapter prematurely called, "A Serious Turn of Events".**

* * *

I startled awake in an unknown room, wondering and panicking as to how I came to be here of all places. The room may not be familiar, but I knew it had to be Hogwarts based on the bed I came to lay in and the uncanny similarity around me to the Gryffindor dormitories. Yet it wasn't exactly the same. There were no ornate windows to look out of, nor any doors leading to bathrooms—I really need to take a piss—or an exit.

As soon as I thought of it, to my surprise, two, big double-doors had appeared opposite of where I lay, on the far side of the room.

Interesting. James and the rest of us hadn't explored the whole castle afterall. Guess it's time to update that map. Who had it last anyway? Oh. Harry. Right.

Well, best be off to see him, then.

I sat up off the side of the Gryffindor bed, realizing I had no need to get dressed as I woke up wearing the same, ol' robes and boots I had died in. That'll do. Not looking my best, but it's better than what I looked like during my lovely stay in Azkaban. I thought of the posters of attractive Muggle women in my bedroom back in Grimmauld Place and whoa, there they are, right on the walls! Bloody incredible! I whooped aloud, grinning madly at how extraordinary this room really is. I could stay here all day! Now, if only I could have a glass of Firewhiskey in my hand to get me going . . . .

And lo and behold: a fancy, golden-rimmed shot glass of dragonbreath-grade alcohol appeared grasped in my right hand. Fuck yeah! Down the hatch, as the Muggles say!

The burning sensation went down my throat rather deliciously, sending a strong, shuddering spike of liquid courage straight to my head. "WHOO! That's the spirit!"

All of a sudden, an explosion rocked the ground beneath my feet, startling me to my senses for the second time in the short time I've been given life again. What was that all about?

I tried thinking of the possibilities. Did I awake in the middle of a battle? Or perhaps it was some errant students' experimenting gone wrong? I'd give them a medal for initiative and innovation outside of the classroom if I were a teacher here, but something's not right. Definitely not right.

Resolved to get to the bottom of this—and also to find my godson, give him a crushingly good hug, and update the map, because it's about damn time it got re-enchanted—I made like a tree to leave.

* * *

As I went off to find the source of the explosion, I noticed there was nary a wayward student in sight. When I called out to a Hufflepuff kid down a corridor, he let out the most undignified scream and bolted in the opposite direction, dropping his rucksack, spell books, and even his pet Niffler behind in the process. Guess not everybody knows I wasn't the callous, cold-blooded murderer I was made out to be. The little mole-like furry thing then looked straight at me, cocked its little head upwards to sniff the air, and hurried off in the boy's direction, indifferent to anything—and anyone, really!—that isn't cold, shiny, and valuable. How nice. Even Nifflers won't bother with me as I have not a Sickle to spare at the moment. I fleetingly wondered if I should go to Gringotts and pay them a clandestine visit to line up my pockets. For what though, I'm not sure—I guess to feel like an important member of society. Make myself useful. Talking about useful: where was I headed? Right! Harry, map, boom noise.

And as I strode round a corner, a ghastly sight and the strangest, dustiest scent of werewolf, dust, fire, and copper invaded my senses like the biggest fucking slap in the face. I was angry, confused, scared; I felt like throwing my innards right out—then panic and the expeditious sense of duty took over my body, the instinct to protect, because blast it, that is bloody Snape holding my godson and mother of god is that— is that blood? Oh god, he's dying . . . .

I sprinted at them just as Snape muttered an off-putting greeting, just like the git he is, then stumbled down. His body fell forward, but I grabbed onto my wounded godson smelling of gritty, fire-blasted stone and iron.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Any chapter from here on will be brand new if there is enough interest and if not, this is merely a pit stop in a medium-long journey as the plot of "My Immortal" is a god-awful mess to try to salvage. In the meantime, I'll be sticking to catching up with months-delayed beta work.
> 
> Update: Discard the above. Explanation for dropping this provided next ‘chapter’.


	7. This is not a chapter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is an announcement

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a note.

This is me stating that this story had a different ending than ‘My Immortal’ and a different plot, but I had no idea how to smoothly join Ebony’s POV and her powers to abuse the characters with a new story. Because ‘My Immortal’ is THAT much of a disaster. And goodness knows I don’t have enough time on my hands currently to tackle this monstrosity. I had fun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is me being unsure about this crack fic’s future because I have no idea how to move the plot along. Thanks for reading my trash.~


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